Tales of Iffrit: Chronicle of the Wuulvite Kingdom
by Spider Milkshake
Summary: Follows the story of a young weasel and the fortunes of the Wuulvite Kingdom of the Northwest. The world is complex, life is difficult, but somehow these "vermin", or so they're called, have made a nation for themselves. Takes place between Salamandastron and Redwall. Expect all the violence of the canon. Oh, and don't count on judging by species and expect to be right 51 % .
1. Beginnings: Of Grueson

Tales of Iffrit

Of Norwood and the Guerilla Union of Shrews

In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's _Redwall_ Novels

Norwood was not a place that found its way on many maps used by the so-called "goodbeast" species. It was a meandering string of tactfully built cottages of riverstones and wood that followed the course of the small river known only as Northstream. Far to the northwest of the more populated Mossflower country, the less fertile, rocky soil had to be beaten and whipped to produce the same plentiful bounty as the Woodlanders of Mossflower enjoyed. The perch, trout and minnow of the small river were angler-savvy, and the hunting of birds required an infinitely higher level of skill than it did for the hunting in the lands to the south. The land the beasts of Norwood were raised in demanded strength, discipline, and unity from every rat, weasel, stoat, ferret, and fox that lived there. Most of them were farmers and hunters, taking and teaching skills and crafts on the side, and nearly all were trained as warriors and thus were part of the Wuulvite militia. Of their rugged ingenuity and valor the beasts of Norwood were justifiably proud; the living conditions of most "vermin" were less than poverty: Stealing, scrounging, and becoming hired spear fodder just to survive and support families. Of course, these conditions were only so because the "goodbeasts" had _made_ it so for centuries. Everywhere in the hearts and minds of mice, moles, squirrels, hedgehogs, otters, hares, shrews and badgers was the recurring fear and hatred of the "vermin"—the "other". But these creatures had forgotten why rats and ferrets and so on were driven to rob them for no more than meager crusts. They had forgotten that the weasels and foxes were living, breathing beasts like themselves, not just "vermin".

That wasn't what twisted Iffrit's temper, though. The young, cocoa brown-furred weasel could take the insults, the terrified stares, the murmurs of "wonder whichbeast 'e's off t' stick, eh?" in his stride. The weasel youth _knew_ he wasn't a spawn of Hellgates simply due to his species. He knew if he'd have been born a squirrel or rabbit nobeast would assume he was up to no good while he was off in the countryside gathering apples or fishing. What irked the hazel-eyed youngbeast the most was how the "goodbeasts" treated each other. A shrew or an otter could turn an innocent, yet trespassing, stoatmaid into a pincushion of arrows and javelins on sight, and his fellows would, rather than gasp in horror or scold the guilty one, play it down and play it off. Mice and voles made excuses: "Oh, I'm sure you couldn't see that she had a basket of strawberries, but then again you never can tell with vermin."

"You never can tell with vermin" was almost mandatory in the everyday speech of hares and otherbeasts. It was as if, though the deaths were horrible and the suffering was equal if not worse than that of a mouse or mole, "goodbeasts" could do no wrong. And weasels could never be noble warriors, protectors of their comrades; weasels could only amount to cutthroat pirates or robbing beggars.

Iffrit stroked the hilt of the shortsword made specially for him by his mother, an aspiring steelsmith. It was his father, a Wuulvite officer named Raegnor Warscythe, who had actually elected to let him have a weapon of war. Iffrit's battle training was reaching its critical point; he was adept with bow, dagger, and light spear, and was adequate with a sling, but his sword skills were still rudimentary. The Captain's son sought fervently to change that as he stood alone upon the water meadow between the woods and the south bank of the Northstream. For a long beat the weasel stood tensed like a spring under a thumbclaw, his right paw straying to the pommel of his weapon. He was trying to regulate his breathing to a slow in and slow out.

Like a wild shot from a bowstring he suddenly had the blade clear of its black leather scabbard. He whirled about the field, striking out and trusting lightly at dried plant stalks still standing through the winter that had passed. Dried seeds exploded and floated ponderously in the breeze as every swipe felled the stalks three at a time. He was awkward in his footwork, and wide in his swings, but he was true with his aim and improving. Relaxing again, he brushed seeds off his stiff, new, scarlet tunic and sheathed the sword with a proud flourish. His hazel eyes crinkled and gleamed with a smile as he hailed the small line of other half-grown children of Norwood.

"Hoi! You're all late, y' wankers!" he called obnoxiously. A fox cub that stood head and shoulders over any of the others and a ferret with cinnamon-colored fur and a black nose ran ahead of the other three. The fox clapped Iffrit on the back chummily as he drew close.

"Everybeast's allus late to you, mucker," he laughed. The weasel gave him a playful glare and made as if to hit him, but it never came.

In a short time the village youths were organizing themselves for their plan. Iffrit jumped up on an oblong, moss-covered boulder and brought order. He banged his footpaw against the stone until all the young creatures gave him their attention.

"Right! Who all's here? Bramm, Loach, you got yore stuff?" he barked, and the fox and ferret perked up at their names as they were called. Bramm held out a fishing spear and a long coil of rope. Loach indicated the long dagger at his belt and the sling in his paw, then nudged a sack on the ground which contained smooth, round slingstones. "What about you, Violet?" and in response the stoatmaid nodded and pointed to her bow and quiver of gray flighted arrows. The other two, another weasel named Raosk and a female rat named Sleetpad, didn't wait for their names to be called.

"We've got our slings and stones!" Raosk blurted out excitedly.

"An' I brought th' dummy, jus' in case!" the ratmaid said shortly after. Iffrit shot them a short glare for speaking out of turn but did not shout at them.

"That makes us ready!" he grinned, paws on hips, "Everybeast know th' plan?"

All five nodded whole-heartedly.

"Okay then, off we go."

Loach and Iffrit followed closely behind Bramm the fox cub as he whacked a trail through the dead hawthorne branches and parasitic vines with his spear. Violet and Sleetpad followed them at a distance, lugging a vaguely weasel-shaped sacking dummy filled with woodpigeon feathers and straw. Raosk lagged behind considerably, burdened by the bag of slingstones and the duty of making sure they weren't followed.

The scent of wood smoke became present in the forest air, and Bramm halted them. Turning to Iffrit and Loach, the fox grinned.

"I think that's them, yea?"

"'S th' right area for 'em, " Iffrit scowled, paw unconsciously grasping the hilt of his sword, "I'll scout ahead, see if we can't get some good spots before the soggy shrewmice notice somethin's up."

Before the two companions could stop him the dark-furred weasel took off, crashing away into the brush.

* * *

The "soggy shrewmice" were grudgingly awakening in their camp, blowing the coals of the previous night's fires back into life and sleepily tending to their three log canoes. Their leader, an overweight, gray-furred shrew named Grueson Flickblade, played no part in the work. His hard, black eyes glared out at his two dozen followers like two boiling pits of viscous tar. An amateurish, young shrew accidentally let slip of his end of a logboat, causing the other five beasts carting it along to lose their balance and drop the vessel with a chorus of shocked squeals. Grueson stood quickly and strode over to where the young shrew was getting up. His face ugly with temper the older creature kicked the youngster in the shoulder, sending him toppling over once again.

"Eggbrains!" he growled, prompting the victim to scramble for protection behind the log canoe, "Are you weak or just stupid? Get up, ye slug, get that boat over t' the bank or I'll shave your ears with your own sword!"

Flickblade's reputation was so dreadfully violent that the little shrew instantly went to do as he was bidden. Overburdened with the heavy maplewood boat, the terrified youngbeast dragged and pulled with all his might, finally reaching the wet, brown sands of the streambank and collapsing in a sobbing heap of exhaustion. Grueson nodded to two more shrews who were standing about hesitantly.

"Get that boat off 'im," he ordered curtly. The two rushed to obey.

The older shrew's attention was elsewhere. Though he did command a lot of respect from a great many guerilla shrews through their fear of his fighting skills and harsh discipline, he was not the Log-a-Log, the supreme commander, of this shrew union. No, that honor had gone to his distant nephew Jerro. Just thinking of his relative occupying the position that he _obviously _deserved made his teeth grind. Shuffling moodily, he returned to his lean-to shelter near the coals of the largest fire. An equally old female shrew awaited him, though she didn't seem too pleased to see him return.

"Hunh!" Grueson huffed angrily as he reclaimed his seat on the colorfully-woven quilt underneath the canvas. The female disdainfully provided him with a drink of shrewbeer, purposefully overfilling the beaker and spilling a notable quantity. Grueson glared at her viciously.

"Don't waste my time and resources, ye rathag."

"Don't waste your _own_ time an' resources then!", she retorted bitterly, "Why aren't you busy directing this supposed 'grand invasion' of the vermin camp that you yabbed so much about when ye were sailin' us up here? Ye talk so much of the glory of battlin' the forces o' darkness, when're ye actually goin' t' _do_ it?"

Grueson was almost finished with the draught already. As his wife brought her tirade to a peak he tightened his grip on the drinking vessel and brandished it as a weapon.

"Kainna!" he snarled in warning. The female shrew was suddenly and miraculously struck dumb. Grueson flung the beaker away, letting it smash against a stone on the ground.

"I warn you, old one," he seethed dangerously, toying with the hilt of his rapier, "don't you dare put any false ideas in my shrews' heads about abandonin' the attack. An' don't you ever take me for a coward in front of my fighters!"

Kainna blinked impassively. She had already said what she meant to. Turning casually, she could barely contain the look of smugness that crossed her face as she retreated to the females' sleeping area, out of range of any of the usual projectiles. Flickblade slumped dejectedly, staring hard down at a scrawled map of the area. An "x" of charcoal had been used to mark the location of Norwood and a dot of wax denoted the placement of the shrews' camp. A low broad hill and the width of the Northstream as it wound about the topography of the land was all that stood in the way of Grueson and everlasting glory. That, and about three score vermin warriors.

_Wuulvite they may be, vermin are no match for guerilla shrews_, he thought. He was arrogantly confident that his numbers, just four over a score of fieldable creatures, would easily cut down those of the larger beasts they were to face. In the growing light of morning, the shrew conqueror hunched over his map, orchestrating his new battle plan.

* * *

When Iffrit returned his companions were overjoyed, but the dark-furred young weasel hushed them urgently as he approached. The five eagerly leaned in as he relayed his intel.

"They're there alright. 'S full two dozen armed with these short, skinny swords an' another who ain't got much more'n the clothes on their backs. There's a few bows an' slings lyin' about, but if they're ambushed they ain't goin' t' get at 'em in time. We c'n hit 'em from three sides t' herd 'em inter th' stream, then they'll get goin' if they know what's good for 'em."

"What if they don't run?" Sleetpad suggested nervously, "What if they figger out how many we are an' charge at us?"

"If we do this right they ain't goin' t' know how many we are, or even if we're fish or fowl," the stoatmaid Violet reassured her. Raosk whirled his sling experimentally and grinned in anticipation.

"Heheh, we'll make 'em jump, won't we?" he chuckled. Loach tested his own sling's weight and balance with a probing claw.

"Hard an' fast, pop up one place, sling a stone, move elsewhere an' repeat th' process," the ferret murmured, smiling, "Fight fire with fire, an' guerillas with guerillas."

"Sunnd's like a plan," Bramm grinned, retrieving his sling and setting his spear down, "but best get 'em right away whilst they's still yawnin'."

* * *

The eyes of the shrew assault force were blind to the minute movements of flower and shrub as the six half-grown Norwood creatures crept out into separate areas on the hillside. Several shrews were attempting (and failing) to make a pan of raisin duff when one very skinny one squinted off towards a slippery elm tree.

"Hey, what's tha—arrgh!"

He toppled over, clutching his jaw where the smooth river rock had smashed into it. Two female shrews stooped to help him up but found that he was unconscious. One by one other shrews leaped up in alarm all over the camp as a rain of slingstones hit them like a pack of angry wasps. Grueson sat upright with a start and instantly cowered behind the canvas of his shelter and searched around wildly for the source of the attack. He poked his head around the flap but instinctually withdrew it. An arrow zipped by where his head had been and buried its point full length in a piece of firewood.

"Hey, you ditherin' slugs! Get slings an' retaliate!" he roared at six shrews who were scrambling helter-skelter near the fire. They bent to obey, but all six were simultaneously struck in various places by hard little pebbles flung from accurate leather slings. Two swooned at the sight of another shrew whose tail had been pierced by an arrow and was running about in circles squealing, the rest yelped and clutched at bruised and smarting backs, paws, and rumps.

"Grah! Morons!" Flickblade snarled. He could see that the sudden assault had driven the morale right out of his fighters, and now the shrews, guerilla fighters and their families, were scampering about for solace and quivering in fright like startled baby owls.

Kainna saw the hopeless situation and acted quickly. She began ushering several females and youngsters into the logboats, helping warriors carry the unconscious aboard as well. Grueson shot her a cutting glare and strode over with fear of missiles forgotten.

"Where d'you think you're goin', leech?" he spat over the sounds of chaos, "These shrews follow _my_ orders! An' I say we _fight_!"

"Excuse me, blubbergut, but d'you happen to see what's goin' on here? Your 'mighty warriors' are quiverin' like unbaked puddens, an' we don't have a clue what's attackin' us or how many. If ye were _smart_, ye'd say for us to regroup farther away, or maybe we should forget this 'ole stupid venture an' go back to the good life we had!"

Grueson snatched Kainna roughly by her tunic's collar and yanked her so close she could see the yellow streaks of his bared teeth, the straining blood vessels in his furious eyes. She stared back nonplussed.

"Ye should be glad there's otherbeasts around," he hissed, "Next time I'll make you wish ye were in the stream bottom."

With that he released her and bellowed aloud to his followers.

"Retreat to logboats! Leave camp, retreat!" Striding back to the lesser fire, Grueson leered at the surrounding underbrush and kicked the burning wood about on the grass. Sniggering maliciously, he sped back to the fore of the largest log canoe and leapt aboard as it pulled away from the bank.

Violet raised her head and gasped in horror. The burning cinders were setting the meadow beside the stream on fire, and it was spreading fast. Forgetting stealth, she dashed down the hill calling to her friends.

"Help! Fire, put it out quick! Help!"

She swept a loose belt of canvas off one of the shelters nearest her and set about beating and smothering the hot coals. Iffrit and Loach ran out from across the field and began helping the stoatmaid curb the small blazes.

"Fire-raiser, eh!" Iffrit snarled contemptuously, stamping out a spark with his bare pawpads. Loach frowned and thwacked away at a pile of smoldering twigs with a juniper beater he had cut. The others joined them shortly as the last few fires were extinguished.

"Hunh, dirty vermin," Bramm glared at the very distant forms of the bobbing logboats, "Settin' fires all reckless as that. Make me mad t' th' core."

"An' they say _we're_ the barbaric savages…" Iffrit murmured darkly, glowering like a thundercloud. Sleetpad began rummaging in the canvas shelters, bringing out forgotten bows and rapiers. One by one she and Raosk wedged the weapons between stones in the fire rings and snapped them with their full weight. Loach picked one sword up and examined it.

"Hmm… far too short for even us t' use. 'Twere made for shrews an' shrews only." Shrugging, he mimicked Raosk and Sleetpad and snapped it in half.

"Oi! There's supplies they left!" Bramm called from inside Grueson's former shelter. The dark-furred weasel jogged over and dubiously eyed some glass vessels that looked like cider jugs.

"This ain't cider, blegh!" he hurled the jug against a stone, smashing it and spilling the contents, "I'm surprised them shrews still 'as livers an' kidneys swiggin' this stuff. 'Stoo strong, 'specially for little shrimps like shrews…"

Bramm aided his friend in disposing of the shrewbeer, then shouldered a sack of the other supplies, which appeared to be sweet biscuits glazed with something orange in color, flasks of various cordials, and satchels of various nuts and vegetables. He gestured at the loot.

"At least we c'n capture this lot an' put it t' use, considerin' them shrews don' wan' it no more."

"Aye, lemme see one o' those," Iffrit reached out imploringly. Bramm shuffled the sack away protectively.

"Nay, don' spoil yer appetite fer lunch, pal. Y'know what yer mammie'd say."

"Hoi, 'sjust one! One little piece o' that weird biscuit…"

"Nope, keep yer claws away. 'Tis fer all of us."

"There's more'n six biscuits in there!"

"Nah, we waits 'til we gets home."

"Yah, we'll mix it in with th' supplies in th' big cellar an' nobeast'll be the wiser." Loach added helpfully to Bramm's argument. Iffrit crossed his arms, bitter that he'd been outvoted.

"Pah, fine. It makes sense enough," he relented, trying to keep some hint of good grace, "but once we gets home I'm tryin' some o' that weird biscuit!"

Filing off, they dissolved into the trees, back towards home.

* * *

As the six young creatures approached the arching entryway marking Norwood village they were instantly alert that their game was up. An older weasel with a powerful, steel spring build wearing a faded blue tunic and lizard leather sandals and gauntlets stood leaning on one of the posts, a smile of measured patience hovering about his lips. Iffrit lowered his head guiltily and darted behind the much larger Bramm. The older beast's piercing hazel eyes caught the movement and frowned deeply, yet still remained smiling. As the pack of guiltily shuffling youngbeasts approached he took a pace into the archway's center, blocking them.

"Hallo, Mister Raegnor, sir," Loach and Raosk greeted him in a low mumble. The father of Iffrit nodded in recognition and gave the sorry group a long look.

Slowly a group of very disappointed looking adult Norwooders revealed themselves. Two were ferrets, the same cinnamon hue as Loach, one was a portly rat, one a rust-colored vixen, three were weasels (a tall, somber-faced father, a somewhat plump mother, and a quite gray-flecked grandmother), and the last was a cocoa-furred stoatmaid that looked nearly as young as Violet. Raegnor's smile broadened.

"Off with you now, to your parents," he dismissed the five. Gratefully the young creatures scurried off to the deceptively less forgiving faces of their guardians. Now Iffrit was alone with his father.

Raegnor prodded the abandoned sack of plunder with one footpaw then eyed his son.

"Where's this come from, Iffrit?"

The little weasel toyed with the loose end of his belt and was silent.

"Did you steal it?"

"No…" he mumbled. Raegnor gave him a hard look.

"Well you certainly didn't buy it. Where'd you get it?"

"Shrews," Iffrit snuffed poutily. He looked away as his father rummaged in the bag, "but they was too close anyway—"

"Too close?" the older weasel's eyes grew hot, "So they were too close? So what did you do about it?" He took a step toward his son and dropped the bag roughly, "You _didn't_ cause a _fight_, did you?!"

"They didn't see us! Nobeast was hurt, so what's the problem?!"

"You did fight them! Haven't I told ye before not t' cause trouble with th' Woodlanders, shrews least of all! What were ye thinking, bairn?!"

"I just wanted t' help!" he retorted in a shrill voice, "they was bad creatures, an' they were too close to us! They were gonna do badwill t' us, so me'n' the others stopped 'em!" Staring his father down rebelliously he clenched his paws into fists and growled out his final point, "We stopped 'em, so there!"

Raegnor appeared stunned for a moment, blinking his fierce eyes in silence. They softened as he responded in a more reasonable tone.

"Son, it's not what happened that I'm mad about. It's that you young 'uns did it, and without any help from a fully-trained fighting animal too," he placed a paw on his son's shoulder, inwardly amazed that he did not have to stoop to do so anymore, "I'm not even very mad at you. I'm more scared than anythin'. What if somethin' had gone wrong with your plan?"

Iffrit hung his head sullenly, the weight of his guilt finally starting to sink in. Raegnor lifted his chin with one claw.

"Your mother an' I just want you to be safe, at least until it ain't a choice of ours what ye do. D'ye understand?" Iffrit nodded, "Alright. Home now."

As Raegnor picked up the sack of supplies the younger weasel wrinkled his nose.

"I'm gonna get me ears bitten off by mom, ain't I?" he grumbled lowly. The father weasel laughed.

"Aye, boy, an' your tail too, I imagine…"


	2. Four Seasons On: The Usurper,Part I

Tales of Iffrit

Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector

(Part I)

In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's _Redwall_ Novels

The bodies of a family of six foxes floated in lazy circles in a pooling area of Northstream where the current eddied. Wiping the blade of his rapier on a tussock of reedgrass, the old shrew with the hard, black eyes admired his work, sheathing an additional weapon, a main gauche dagger. A mother, a father, two young maids ages four and six seasons, and a helpless old grandfather were the victims of the ruthless killing. The only weapon the foxes had been able to get to, found on the person of the mother vixen, was a pruning knife that was being used to core a basket of freshly gathered apples. After putting away his own rapier the perpetrator of the insidious crime smirked and gingerly plucked up the knife from the pebble beach. With a flick of his wrist the blade spun through the air and landed with a sickening sssthlunk! in the back of the old dogfox's carcass.

Then the shrew went to watch the sun rise in shades of maroon, vivid pink and rich tangerine orange over the hills, scrub forest, woodland groves, and a chain of very distant mountains topped with a permanent glaze of ice and snow. They were called the Highlands by most creatures in this northern latitude, though as the craggy-featured, middle-aged shrew recalled many from the Mossflower region to the south and east called them the "North Mountains". Grueson Flickblade snorted; stupid southern bumpkins! Never went far enough outside their own borders to know that two more large mountain ranges existed even farther north of these Highlands. They were too gutless to brave even the immediate north-this northwestern country, for example. But there were plenty of reasons not to trespass here. An army of eight hundred reasons-the patrolling militia of the Wuulvite Kingdom. Not to mention those vermin scum who weren't part of it, the families of the soldiers who farmed and foraged and hunted on this land. Like the family of foxes he'd just dealt with.

When Jerro and his search party found the Log-a-Log's uncle the old fat shrew was waiting for them. Nonchalantly leaning against the scaly trunk of a big, old sycamore, Grueson gnawed one of the apples and watched their approach with spiteful, challenging eyes.

Log-a-Log Jerro scanned the water's edge and noticed the floating corpses becoming stuck in reeds and cattails, low-hanging alder branches and other aquatic vegetation. The young Noguos leader felt his gorge rise at the sight of the wanton slaying-there was no possible way that the family of six unarmed vermin could ever have posed a threat to the shrews of the Northstream Guirella Union of Shrews. Again came the wave of disgust and despair that Jerro often felt when confronted with the brutality of his uncle's deeds. He had tried more than once to rein in the reckless and ambitious old shrew, but he couldn't bring himself to enact a proper discipline upon a fellow goodbeast. Grueson was family,after all. And even if the slayings were totally unjustifiable with the information he had it wasn't as if his uncle was slaughtering peaceful tribes of mice and moles. The victims were vermin-foxes too. It was a reasonable theory, or perhaps an excuse, to any shrew of his tribe that the deadbeasts could've been a covert group of slavers, or even the healers and seers to an awful horde or Juska band. Or maybe they were thieves who burglarized the homes of squirrels and hedgehogs? It was impossible to tell now.

But Jerro couldn't shake the nag of conscience eating at his morality. There was always that agonizing possibility that the vermin victims of Flickblade's massacres had been honest creatures.

Log-a-Log Jerro padded up to the sycamore, followed by the search party of seven other shrews. Steeling himself for the inevitable verbal battle about to unfold, the tough-looking shrew leader clasped his paws behind his back and stopped a few paces short of where Grueson stood.

"If it isn't my dearest nephew," Flickblade sneered, his paw resting on the hilt of his rapier, "Whaddya want now?"

"I'd like it if you'd explain yourself, Grueson, before it gets too late for you," Jerro responded, trying to sound hard-lined and strong, but struggled to keep his voice on an even keel.

"Explain m'self?" the older shrew chuckled as if the suggestion was ludicrous, "What's t' explain? We're stream shrews, little one_-_-waterwarriors. 'S what we were born t' do, dispatch vermin." At this Jerro opened his mouth to interject, but, chortling nastily, Grueson overtalked him, "Looks t' me like you're some kinda advocate for the scum. Well, are ye a vermint-lover? Don't sound too good for yore reputation as Log-a-Log t' be more concerned with these worthless creatures than with fellow shrews-"

Jerro's temper was unleashed. Quivering with rage, the young Log-a-Log jerked his rapier out of its sheath and held it forward, pointing it at his uncle's throat.

"Think about what you're doing, Grueson. You put my honor on th' line and I'll salvage it with steel," Jerro warned fiercely, "And let nobeast say I put th' welfare of others over my crew-but what you're doing is hazardous to the Noguos! The Wuulvite Kingdom is a stronghold for vermin in these lands. Don't mess with 'em; they're a force t' be reckoned with. Even without you, idiot, to stir the coals!"

Insolently, the overweight shrew waved a hefty paw as he turned and waddled off towards the shrew camp in the scrub hills, as if his nephew the Log-a-Log wasn't worth his time.

"Yak, yak, yak! What a breeze ye stir up, stream-lawyer," Flickblade snorted out his parting insult. Jerro bared his many small, sharp teeth and barred his uncle's way, pricking with his rapier point menacingly.

"Better a stream-lawyer than a war-monger," the Log-a-Log said bluntly, "I won't take any more of your nonsense_-_-there's no use in starting up a war that'll only endanger our shrews' young 'uns!"

Blinking in stunned silence, Flickblade's face radiated contempt as he shoved the blade aside.

"Fine then, milksop-too spineless t' lead two hundred warriors into battle with squattin' vermin scum in yore own backyard, enh..." the fat old shrew stamped a new path up the low broad hill toward scrub woodland and glades of fruit trees, all the way grumbling profanity and curses upon his nephew. Three of Jerro's party readied bows and slings to go after and capture the offending challenger, but a barking order from the Log-a-Log stopped them.

"Let 'im go. He's stubborn, and insubordinate, and immoral, but he's blood kin t' me, and I won't see him harmed." Jerro blinked against a tear of frustration, "Anyways, he's harmless by 'imself. The Noguos will follow me, not that foolish murderer..."

Heading off on a different path toward the Noguos camp, Jerro and his seven loyal trackers made their way back to their creatures and to a day's business running a shrew union.

* * *

Thirty leagues from the brackish estuary where the Noguos had made camp was the Wuulvite village of Norwood. Above the winding upper lengths of the stone-littered Northstream the string of stone and timber cottages, the spotty wildflower meadows, the vegetable fields, and the surrounding forested lands rich in haw and blackthorn, elm, pine, oak, maple, alder, and even chestnut trees the same sun rose in the same painted canvas of splendor. The Norwood creatures were awake and breakfasting on the products of their fields and the efforts of their hunts. Rats, weasels, stoats, ferrets and foxes got their fill of spiced barleymeal, toasted apples and almonds, fresh farls of wheatbread and leftover roasted ptarmigan and water millet hotpots. The larks were rising, blackbirds and goldfinch were already in song, and all manner of streamflies and other insects were taking to the air in lazy flight. It was well into the new Spring season, and the sowing was over. Some early harvests had been begun only just yesterday, and every capable beast was called upon to aid in bringing in ripe produce.

Iffrit, son of Norwood Chieftain and Wuulvite Captain Raegnor Warscythe, had grown quite a bit since the late winter day when he and the village youths had driven out the small Noguos band, some four seasons back. The shortsword forged by his mother and co-Chieftan, Vautanna Snakeroot, seemed a bit too small for his dark chocolate-hued paw now. He wore a stylish but slightly worn barkfiber frock coat of a deep, dark blue color, the buttons of a well-polished brass. He had it open in spite of the chill in the morning air. The hazel eyes of the young weasel were focused on his task: Iffrit stood in a field of spring greens-chard, dandelion, yellow mustard, and kale. A satchel was slung over his sinewy shoulder, already half-filled with the salady materials. With a pair of small paw-shears Iffrit snipped every other succulent leaf, listening with humored satisfaction to a song being sung by another Norwooder_-_-an older stoat named Grisk Rodtail. It was an old Wuulvite tradition that every trained fighting beast have a similar song-the Foesong. Practiced and crafted at home with devotion and pride, sung to one-on-one challengers before any fierce death duel with an enemy, for honor and country. Grisk's may not have been the most serious, but it was certainly foreboding enough. It went like this:

"'Tis a warning all you rovers, thieves, marauders, too,

that this song ye hear is about t' spell out for you.

There's a fever going 'round; they call it Grisk Rodtail-

known t' make corsairs and scurvy slavers pale.

"It'll get you by the kidneys an' give ye such a shock,

that ye can't destroy with fear or fight off with a rock,

when this destroyer's done you'll be shakin' an' alone.

My foebeast's darkest nightmare-I zero at th' bone!

"If this song is not enough for ye I'll make it pretty plain;

Grisk's a master of yore death an' a typhoon of th' main.

Stand before this fever, if ye dare, look in the eyes of might-

There's an oaken rod now at my back-_-_'S all I need t' fight!"

"How long'd it take t' come up with that, eh?" the young weasel chucked, nodding admiringly. Grisk flashed a snaggle-toothed grin and continued snipping mustard greens.

"Nigh on ten seasons, young 'un, 'S I remember. Nah, wait, more like twelve. Hard time I 'ave with it-I ain't much've a versin' creature," the stoat began proud, but ended modest. The Wuulvite Norwooder gave Iffrit a quizzical look, "'Ave you started on one yet, eh mate?"

The dark-furred weasel guffawed loudly.

"Wouldn't know what t' say. I'm only sixteen seasons this spring an' never been in a real scrap," Iffrit frowned, "You'll tell me more about that raid an' seabattle ye were goin' on about yesterday, will ye?"

"Caw, Iffrit, boy-I thought I'd satisfied yer yesterday!" Grisk threw up his paws, but before Iffrit became too disappointed he winked and continued, "Don't mean I ain't gonner humor ya. Very good, 'ere 'tis:

"Now 'fyou'll remember, me troop o' Wuulvite shoreguards led by m'self were rangin' the coast south o' the Northstream outlet, 'longside Swampdark lands where that tribe o' big fine natterjack toads live. We got some contact with their scouts, y' see, 'bout a Corsair sloop moored 'round a rockpoint 'alf a day's march from there. Toads ain't so good on salty waters, y'know. We told 'em we'd deal with that rot-er, lot.

"Anyways, we tracked a fair belt o' seaboot tracks down form th' 'igh dunes t' th' sea, an' an 'ole crew o' th' cutthroats were waitin' fer us, cutlass an' spear-tooth an' nail!"

"Aye, I heard that bit," Iffrit grinned affably. Grisk took a swig from a brass flask at his waist by a cord during the break.

"You ain't 'eard this, though-th' Cap'n o' this nasty bunch o' wet dogrags was non other'n' th' big bilgerat Skurr Tyrinas."

"Skurr... nasty name, 'Skurr'. Sounds like 'spur'. Or 'scar'." Iffrit curled his lip disdainfully. Grisk laughed aloud.

"Hawhaw! Nasty but fittin'-_-_nasty bunch, nasty searat! Er, where was I, then? Oh, yeh! Skurr Tyrinas-_-_biggest searat you'll e'er see in yore life, 'ad 'is dreaded 'ookwhip weapon with 'im, not to mention more'n enough steel blades on 'is person t' sink a cork raft!"

"Hookwhip?" Iffrit blinked quizzically, snipping kale, "What th' devil is a hookwhip? A weaponized fishin' pole?"

Again Rodtail hooted loudly with laughter.

"Nay, nay, young feller. 'Tis more of a demented type o' ball-an'-chain," he explained, taking an experimental nibble on some red chard. He pulled a face, "Whoo-_-_these greens're a lot nicer in a soup... or in a lovely salad with shredded yellowleaf cheese an' some snow peas..."

"Tastes fine t' me. It ain't meant t' be roast duck, y'know," the weasel laughed softly after testing some mustard greens for himself. The affable stoat looked up in wonderment, then beamed broadly at his younger partner.

"Ah, well said. Wise 'ead y' got there on yore strappin' shoulders. That's goin' in me brain's mem'ry o' quotes_-_-youngbeasts sayin' bright things." the old Wuulvite complimented, then went back to his harvesting in quiet. frowning slightly, the young weasel gave him a light nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

"Er, ach, what?" the stoat started. The youngbeast gave him a sorrowful, pleading look, and after a moment of confusion Grisk's face lit up, "Oh! Right, sorry young 'un, forgot completely what I was doin'. Right-o then, back to me tale.

"So there Skurr was, backed by nigh on four score wave robbers an' cutthroats. They came at us from be'ind th' rocks on either side o' us. Now, as ye know, m'boy, a Wuulvite Patrol Comp'ny's only got about for'y beasts that make it up. Ten archers, ten spears 'n' pikes, an' twenny miscellaneous infan'ry. Most of me mates 'ad slings on 'em at least, an' everybeast 'ad at least a sword or long dagger t' fight with, but yore ole mate Rodtail 'ad a liddle secret weapon, if y'd like t' call it that. That's the battle that I get me Foesong from!"

"Wait, wait, don't tell me," Iffrit smiled, shaking his head in disbelief, "The valiant Norwooder Grisk Rodtail, beset by insurmountable odds, defeated th' dread crew of Skurr Tyrinas the Sea Raider by thrashin' 'em t' pulp with 'is tail?"

"'Ey, now, don't get cheeky with me, young weasel. It wasn't all me an' I never claimed it," Grisk sniffed, "Th' rest o' th' Company helped."

The two both found the humor in the statement and succumbed to gales of hearty, healthy laughter. As they paused to get their wind back a lone figure breasted the hill above the vegetable patch. It was the mother of Iffrit.

"Son, can you come home for a moment?" she called down to them.

"G'on on then, young feller. 'Tis an edict of Lady Snakeroot; the greens can wait." Grisk chuckled. The weasel turned and frowned as he headed up the slope.

"Shh. She hates bein' called that!"

The stoat's chuckles still echoing behind him, the young weasel made his way to the top of the hill and his mother's side. He could not help but recall the awe his mother always inspired in him. Though not officially a Wuulvite warrior, Vautanna Snakeroot could every inch pass as a soldieress. She was taller than most of the male weasels and stoats he'd seen, and every bit as powerfully built as her mate Raegnor. Her steely sinews were concealed under half-breeches and gown, but her sure step and graceful movements whispered the truth to every watchful observer. Her eyes were golden and intense at times, but now was not one of those times. They were warm and faded to mellow brass.

"What's th' trouble, mother?" Iffrit questioned the weasel chieftainess as they padded along softly between garden patches and well-tended fruit trees. The golden-eyed weasel nodded slowly and stifled a chuckle.

"Well, your father has something to ask of you, but I think it's better you hear it of him..." she evaded the prying nimbly. Iffrit jutted out his lip and squinted suspiciously.

"Why's that?! I ain't a babe no more-I can handle th' truth!" he attempted to coerce, waving paws energetically. This time Vautanna did chuckle.

"Too bad, young pup. We're here," she teased. Before them was the great house of the Cheiftan's family: Constructed of blocks of dun sandstone and framed with polished yew scaffolding, it was a fine, well-layed out abode. There were two stories, a slate-shingled roof, white cheerfully painted shutters on square glass windows, a cellar door poking out the left side of a shady wooden porch strewn with carven willow chairs. Growing on either side of the house were two ancient holly trees to ward lightning away from the tin weather vane and twin chimneys. Lady Snakeroot put a paw on the doorlatch and gently pushed the heavy oak door open for her son.

"Go on in; he's waiting on you," she whispered. Iffrit couldn't help but be nervous; his paws became sweaty suddenly. Stepping inside, the young weasel followed by his mother bypassed the small entry hall and rounded the corner to the den, where he was startled by the sight of many im[ortant-looking creatures waiting there for him.

Aside from his father, three of the ten famous Wuulvite Captains looked up sagely towards the dark-colored weasel youth. The youngbeast's heart pounded with excitement at the sight of the three noble-looking warriors he'd heard such wonderous tales about. Nearest him was the famed Archer Captain Scruvo Whitemane-a lean, fairly tall albino brown rat, his long headfur held in a horsemane-like arrangement by eight silver clips. Nearby his recurve bow and quiver of white-flighted arrows lay on a wooden bench, and at his side was his trusty halfsword, called a seax. He peered cryptically with his pale pink eyes over a beaker of elderberry cordial he was sipping on. Seated at the square study table was the Training Captain, a smaller and normally colored brown rat with the name Dunnage Loampad. his dark eyes studied the youngbeast astutely, twitching graying whiskers. There was no great weapon hanging from his belt, but a sheathed arming sword lay nearby on the table. And the third stood by the side of Raegnor, the only one of the Wuulvite officers present who was taller and more intimidating than the young weasel's father-the awesome Tactical Captain Forgo Wolftooth: A large gray vixen with wild, pale blue eyes like a wolf's. Her upper fangs protruded slightly from her jaw, and she was a mottled white, silver, tan and black with a dark rusty-brown tailtip. Her armament consisted of a long, heavy backsword of the falchion variety, and it was at her side. She still wore the green cloak of Captaincy about her shoulders, but the others had taken theirs off and hung them on the coatrack near the entryway. Iffrit stood by a smiling Vautanna, frozen with awe. Raegnor crooked a claw at him to join the conversation.

"Hallo, son. We were just talkin' about you," he grinned. Iffrit cam back to reality swiftly and padded in, seating himself reverently a respectful distance from Captain Dunnage. The rat smiled at him.

"Don't fret-_-_it's all good things." he said, his voice crackly and thin, "We'd like to ask ye about yer thoughts on becomin' a Wuulvite militiabeast in a coupla seasons."

"Y' mean... I could?" Iffrit gasped, looking to Raegnor. His father crossed his arms and nodded slowly.

"You ain't a babe anymore. If that's what ye really aim t' be then it's no judgement of min t' make," the weasel Cheiftan explained, his voice low as if he were taking a blood oath. The albino rat Captain held up a snowy paw.

"Think about what this will mean, Master Iffrit. To pledge oneself to the defense of this land is no feat of a petty beast," he warned in a silky melodious voice that carried no trace of accent, "I can see that this is an aspiration of yours, but I would think on it some more."

Iffrit heeded the wise words of the white rat. Immediately questions came popping up in his mind. He voiced them immediately.

"When would this be? Do I go to training first? And I'm not th' only one, right?"

Captain Forgo stood rigidly and answered him in a husky, authoritative bark.

"Recruitment age is seventeen seasons minimum, and you get a minimum of one moon of combat training," She stared at Iffrit unwaveringly, "You're among fourteen other Norwood youngbeaststhat we would like to recruit in two seasons from today, after the Great Harvest." The vixen shifted her weight,"Is that satisfactory?"

Iffrit laced his paws together, his eyes wandering to the centerpiece of a craved cherrywood stag set on the table. After a pause he looked back up at his elders and betters.

"Who else're you tryin' t' recruit?" he asked. Captain Dunnage looked uneasy, as if he did not wish the answer to influence the young weasel. But the wolf-like Forgo rapped out several names in smart military fashion regardless:

"Several are friends of yours; Loach the ferret, Bramm the fox, Shaggfur the weasel, Violet the stoat, Doulthe the rat, Furcrest the stoat... among others." To the four Captains' surprise, Iffrit smirked almost joyfully at this and laughed.

"Ahahah! Well, there's no need t' twiddle paws then. If that lot said they're up for it then I am too!" he stated confidently. Vautanna placed a paw on her son's shoulder and smiled calmly, dispelling the worries of the grownbeasts as well as herself.

"There you have it, your Lordships, another eager champion of Norwood to join the great Wuulvite Militia." she said proudly, "What say you?"

"I say his heart is certainly in it," Whitemane nodded, standing and setting down his empty beaker, "And that is something we will honor."

"Yes, I s'ppose..." Dunnage grunted, retrieving his arming sword from the table and clipping it back on his belt, "So, now, I believe that's th' last of 'em. We'll return t' Fortress Wuulvite an' arrange t' begin th' trainin' this autumn. Thank ye kindly," he bowed briefly to Raegnor and his mate, "for th' 'ospitality. Y' run Norwood admirably."

"You're most welcome, friends," the large weasel responded politely. Vautanna helped the older rat Captain into his Captain's cloak.

"Are you sure you won't be needing anything for the return trip?" she expressed her concerns to Scruvo. The albino smiled and reassured her as he slung his bow and quiver over his back.

"Your concern is appreciated, my good lady, but we will manage," he indicated the powerful vixen following him out, "Forgo here can live off the land for many seasons, so we will be fine for a four-day march through friendly territory."

The two rats padded out, but Forgo lingered for a moment longer. Her eerie eyes flicked to Iffrit.

"Congratulations, fiery one," she said gruffly, then, looking to Vautanna, said, "Never forget how to make such fine oatmeal bannocks." And with that the gray vixen was gone. Iffrit rose, nose twitching in puzzlement.

"What a weird way t' say 'good-bye',"he snorted, "What an odd creature she is!"

"Officer material stands out, they say," Raegnor muttered pensively. Iffrit, fired with excitement at his acceptance into the Wuulvite ranks, grabbed his sling from where it lay on a wall-shelf. Vautanna watched him curiously as he scampered to the door.

"Now where're you boundin' off to with that?" she asked smilingly, knowing the answer but asking anyhow. The young weasel whirled in the doorway, paws on the jamb.

"I'm gonna go an' practice a bit with my mates, of course!" he whooped. Raegnor waved him on, shaking his head with a smile.

"Of course. Go on, son."

As the spirited youngbeast frolicked and bounded off, Vautanna and Raegnor stood side by side, watching their only son gallivanting through the mainway of Norwood, darting around gardens, trotting between cottages and workshops, ducking in and out of groves of shade and fruit trees towards the floodwall by the river edge of the village. The golden-eyed Chieftainess sighed and gazed over at the hazel-eyed Chieftain.

"Oh, me. Did we make the right choice, Raegnor?" she whispered softly. The large weasel took her paw as it was offered and smiled reassuringly.

"'Tis what he's wanted to do since he was a little bairn." he gave her paw a light squeeze, "Who knows, maybe he'll make Captain... or meet some lively maid that takes 'is fancy on some lonely patrol."

Vautanna squealed with laughter, leaning of Raegnor to remain standing.

"Oh, you old flirt!" she flailed a paw weakly at his chest, "That's just what you'd like, eh, for your darlin' son to end up just like you!"

"Not just like me," Raegnor purred, "He'll never find a second Vautanna."

"Now, you stop that, you rogue. You're worse'n those bachelor hares."

* * *

The Noguos settlement was laid in a bowl-shaped land depression, ringed with the northwest woodlands on the surrounding hills, a narrow, paw-beaten path wound through a gap in these rises to the northwest; it led to the broad estuary where the shrew union's many logboats were moored to willow and sycamore trees by hemprope hawsers. The village itself was an assortment of canvas tents, set in rings around large, well-established fire rings. Dozens and dozens of dun, pointed tents filled the vale almost from end to end, leaving room for washlines draped with wet woven blankets and an assortment of other miscellaneous gear: Grindstones, workbenches and the like.

Around a large cooking fire near the northern edge of the encampment a large gathering of shrews sat, stood, and peered over their fellows' heads, listening at length to a pair of speakers seated next to the flames. One of the two was Grueson Flickblade.

The old, overweight shrew sat side by side on chairs made of sawn-off logs, too age-worn and knobby to be made into log canoes, with another shrew, far younger and slimmer than the Log-a-Log's uncle. The other shrew, an elite warrior of the Noguos and a trusted member of the union, had an expression of pure disbelief on his weathered and lightly scarred face. A young shrew brought them both beakers of shrewbeer: Grueson grabbed his away and immediately began chugging it, while his confederate accepted his weakly and automatically. Over the hushed chatter bouncing around the gathered crowd, the experienced one finally spoke:

"Tell me again, friend Flickblade." He shook his head as if dazed, "Because I still don't quite know if'n I should believe it."

Grueson finished his draught with a loud sucking noise and wiped his foam-coated whiskers on the back of his paw.

"Aye, Venroh. it shocked me too, when I first heard of it," the grizzled old creature murmured, his face the very picture of grim sincerity, "With me own two lugs-me nephew ordered me t' stand down after I put paid to a half dozen rovin' vermin, naught but a quarter league from our own camp!" The shrew spat angrily into the fire, causing it to sizzle. "I tell ye, comrades, our loyal Cheiftan's got some kind o' deal made with these Wuulvite vermin scum! Why else would 'e object so 'ighly t' me fendin' 'em off?!"

Venroh stared into the fire silently as the scores of gathered Noguos shrews burst into an outraged hubbub, half highly convinced that their Log-a-Log was allied with the Wuulvite Kingdom, the other half enraged at the suggestion of a goodbeast doing such a dastardly deed. Somewhere in the back a fight broke out between two young shrews; they scrabbled and bit at each other on the churning ground until four others parted them. When the noise was reasonably lessened the veteran shrew warrior looked up.

"Enough!" Venroh roared at the still-chunnering rabble, "enough now! Grueson, I dunno if'n I'd go so far as t' say Young Jerro's in with those vermin slime, but at the very least 'e ain't fit t' be Log-a-Log. Ye said 'e was scared to go fight th' vermin at that Norwood place?"

"Aye! Th' lily-livered brat!" Grueson glowered angrily at the skies, "I heard 'im say from his own mouth that we waterwarriors oughtn't mess with 'em, an' d'ye know why?" He leaned forward, and the shrews listening did so in anticipation of the scandalous quotations, "Because 'e said we weren't strong enough!"

This caused much fury in the Noguos shrews, who stamped, roared and screamed horrible curses upon their young, good-hearted leader. Venroh, though, looked most betrayed, glaring his rage out beyond Grueson.

"I think I've heard enough," Venroh ground out the words, "There's few things as evil as lettin' a vermin horde go free t' conquer save a cowardly Log-a-Log who's only held back by fear o' th' scum."

"Aye, throw 'im down!" an angry voice called out. Others joined it.

"'E ain't fit t' lead good 'onest shrews!"

"Flickblade's next in line-make 'im Log-a-Log!"

"Aye! Then we sail an' drive out th' vermin!"

"Death t' those vermin scum an' their monster King!"

"Well, ain't that a bright idea, boys?!" a reedy, crackled voice shrilled out over the commotion, "'F'you believe that sorry tale f'r more'n a minute then I'll be ashamed t' call myself a shrew!"

The congregation turned, rendered near-silent by the shouter's brazen defiance of popular opinion. Many near the sides, their backs to the nearest tent dwelling, parted to make the visage of the dissenter plain to their leaders. An old female shrew, tangerine orange bandanna tight on her head, paw on her short shrew rapier, stepped forward. A light was burning furiously in her fierce brown eyes as she glared at her husband Grueson.

Kainna had spoken.

"Kainna?" Venroh gaped, eyebrows raised, then he turned questioningly to Grueson, "Isn't she yore wife? What does she mean?"

"I'll tell ye myself what I mean!" Kainna growled, still burning holes in her mate's face with her angered gaze, "I'll tell ye, 'f'you take all these shrew fighters up t' Norwood, or south t' Borrcreek, or anywhere in Wuulvite lands t' do battle all ye'll receive in the end is boatloads o' yore dead comrades!"

"You're jist like Jerro!" Flickblade spat as he snarled, his eyes radiating contempt for his wife, "Shut yore jaws afore I shut 'em for ye!"

"Don't you lot find it at all odd that out o' th' blue this fat loathsome slug is tryin' t' get you all t' bring down out Log-a-Log-right when he happens t' be next in line as our leader?!" Kainna continued fearlessly. Some of the shrews began to murmur in puzzlement, "Do ye really want this useless lump t' be th' one who leads ye into battle with seasoned an well-armed hordebeasts? 'E may not've told ye, but four seasons ago he tried that very thing with a smaller bunch. An' do ye know what 'appened?!"

"Kainna..!" Grueson growled warningly, his eyes shifting from hateful to crazed beyond reason, "don't ye dare!"

Venroh had gotten his nerve back. He blinked at Flickblade's wrathful display.

"Dare what?" He glanced at Kainna accusingly, "This is all hearsay. I have no reason to believe yore speculations."

"Hearsay is all I've heard said of late!" Kainna spat disgustedly, "An' this ain't no speculation-_-_'tis truth!"

"Kainna!" the old shrew clenched his paws and began to shake.

"This blubbery toad an' all he brought with 'im were made t' run off, tails between legs, by foebeasts we couldn't even see! In fact, th' rumor is that the vermin we were fightin' were no more than some scraggy cubs!"

CRACK!

The sound of the beaker shattering as it struck Kainna's head was deafening in the confines of the crowd of shrews. The old female wobbled on her feet, feeling warm blood drip down her forehead and snout, before she crashed painfully to the ground. The shrews immediately around her gasped in shock, and the rest stared and the crumpled form in stunned silence. Eyes began turning to Grueson Flickblade, who was huffing loudly and still clenching his fists.

"Ye see?! Ye see what 'appens when you stand with a coward an' not yore own mate?!" the snarling shrew ranted, casting about for more disagreers, "Anyone else want t' stand with yellowstreaks an' vermin-lovers?!"

Forcibly removed from their shock at the assault, the shrews were only disquieted for a moment before they became fired again, shouting and chanting in agreement with the warmongering elder shrew. Venroh observed the blood seeping from a small gash in Kainna's head slow and gradually cease; it was not a great deal of blood, so Grueson was not a murderer... yet. The veteran stood and nodded towards the fallen female.

"That one's arguement's as brittle as 'er head. I agree with Flickblade! There's no place for avoiding wicked creatures as stream shrews-th' time is now!"

Apparently not all the Noguos crowd had been suffused with battlelust. The grayed fat shrew snatched the collar of one's shirt as he attempted to shuffle off, dragging him in front of the two leaders and holding him there struggling.

"Where're ye goin'?! Off t' warn Jerro an' get us imprisoned by our own fellow shrews f'r doin' what we're meant t' do?!" he snarled, eagerly encouraging his mob entourage into a frenzy. He knew that in such a fervor they'd accept anything he said as long as it sounded like it was for the greater good. it was an old trick that he relied on heavily and used well. Cowardice was the best bait for this, but vermin hatred came in at a close second. Inside the old shrew smiled; thank the fortunes that this campaign could involve both.

"Bind 'im an' toss 'im in that tent!" Venroh ordered over the jeering and howling rabble, "Put Kainna in there too. She can't be trusted not t' turn us over t' th' coward Jerro!"

Several shrews obeyed, with one wrapping an extra bandanna around the female's head before tying them about the middle with strong hempen ropes, pinning their arms and legs, and hustling them into a nearby tent dwelling. When they exited they knotted the flap closed on the outside, so that they could not escape.

Venroh drew his rapier and held it point up in front of his face as he turned back to the cunning usurper. He licked it's sharp edge lightly and gave a grim smile.

"We're with ye, Log-a-Log Flickblade... I swear on this blade that th' Noguos'll never be ruled by turnfurs or cowards agin," the veteran fighter declared seriously, as union shrews will when taking up oaths of this nature, "We are yores t' command!"


	3. Four Season On: The Usurper, Part II

Tales of Iffrit

Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector

(Part II)

In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's _Redwall_ Novels

"Ah-ah. You're off yore game today, sister."

The sleek, tall stoatmaid that had made the comment swept her long, bead-woven headfur braid out of her face and slipped fluidly into a shooting stance, sweeping an arrow almost nonchalantly from its quiver and nocking it with no effort or pause. A second later the shaft flew true-straight into the tightly bound straw bundles which served as targets. Violet fumed slightly and readied her own arrow, convinced that she could never look quite so graceful and strong as Saulk, her older sister.

Truth be told, there was little difference between them. There was only a minute shaking in the younger stoatess's paws as she drew back, sighted down the missile's length, and fired with one hundred percent accuracy, striking the target in such a way that the two arrows were touching with no room to spare. Saulk smiled fondly at her younger equal. The two were some of the finest archers in Norwood, aside from their coach the expert hunter Phloxruss. The hefty fox did not even bother to supervise the youngbeasts anymore, knowing them to be adept and responsible creatures.

"Oi! Nice shot!", a brown rat youth named Doulthe called out to Violet, who blushed with happiness at the praise. Her sister was too tough to show much affection. She was only in her home village now because she was on leave from her duty; Saulk was a Wuulvite Militiabeast, part of the Missile Unit, of course. It would be autumn before she would have to return to deployment again. And by that time Violet would have joined her as a fellow warrioress.

"Oof, that's enough for t'day," the pretty stoatmaid winced, indicating that her paws were sore from gripping the waxed bowstring for so long, "Does anyone else want a go?"

"Try it with yore sling, Doulthe," the stoat Furcrest urged his friend. Doulthe shook his head and held his paws up for mercy.

"Nononononono! I can't use a sling right t' save me life. You try it," he backed down sheepishly. Furcrest, whose fur was slightly spiky on the very crown of his head so that it stuck up in a little ridge, accepted the challenge, taking the rat's sling and stepping up to the chalk line beasts were meant to stand behind.

"Okie-dokie, one slingstone to one arrow," the stoat grinned, looking rather foolish for his audience's benefit. A female weasel named Prishan, younger than the other by a few seasons, began heckling the slingbeast teasingly.

"You couldn't hit a field if ye were standin' in it, Furcrest!"

Saulk chuckled almost silently, smirking. She was almost sad that nobeast had placed bets on who would hit their target most accurately (of course none would bet on Furcrest).

"My tailring says he won't even get halfway down th' range," a black rat snickered to a ferret. The ferret clasped paws with the rodent, signaling that the bet was on.

"Your tailring t' my silver chain ye been eyein' all season."

"I challenge the loser!" Loach cried out, swinging his own empty sling above his head. It was clear that the mood in the Wuulvite village was exuberant and all the creatures joyous. Iffrit, who was standing at the back of the small gathering around the shooting range, clapped his ferret friend on the back.

"That's not fair, mate. Furcrest's already outmatched. You should challenge Sleetpad an' I instead!" the weasel suggested. Loach eyed him warily.

"I dunno. You're getting to be quite a lump of a weasel," the cinnamon-furred ferret crossed his paws and tapped a footpaw, "I'd wager you could shoot a stone the size of a frog's head with all that brawn. No way I'd challenge that!"

"Maybe we should just have a contest among everybeast," Iffrit peered around, searching the bunch of rats, weasels, stoats and ferrets for some missing faces, "Where's Bramm an' Shaggfur?"

"Spear-fishing, I believe," the ferret answered, slipping his long dagger in and out of it's decorative woven leather sheath, catching it in the air and experimenting with twirling it, "Aye, the old vixen Rhinex Truthful sent them, along with some pups and two rats, Troggol and Tinga. They're supposed to get some grayling and freshwater mussels for the feast this afternoon."

"Feast? I ain't heard of a feast," Iffrit was surprised by the news. Loach clucked disapprovingly and smiled wanly at the weasel.

"Don't you remember last spring's feast? That was when Saulk and Pewterfur and Ento Smallfang and Wormal were inducted. Remember that?"

"Oh, oh right," Iffrit suddenly recalled, smoothing his headfur with one paw, "Cor, that was great. They 'ad a great roast snow goose an' celery an' onion rolls an' beautiful marchpane wafer cake. We're havin' another just like that?"

"I hope so," a nearby fox called Maltfur muttered dreamily, wiping a bit of drool from his snout.

"No goose this time," Loach frowned, "That was a lucky break in itself that Phloxruss got a snow goose the first time. Those things're fierce."

"They're not so fierce when they're turning over a fire," Iffrit snorted, stretching his paws and acting confidant, "I'm gonna go find Bramm an' see what's for supper."

* * *

The going upriver was tougher than Grueson had expected. His shrews, about ninety total, were having to strain at the oars at a rapid pace to keep up with the swift current of the Northstream, even though they were cramped three to each paddling station. The dozen large logboats crept up the small river slowly but surely, with the hard-eyed usurper at the prow of the lead boat, scanning the shores for signs of movement.

When a whitish shape stepped out from the elms and willows lining the bank and stood boldly in the open Grueson had to look twice to determine exactly what it was. Raising a craggy paw he shouted the order to stop.

"Put in! Beast on th' shore!"

The shrews were glad to obey, relishing the chance to relieve their aching muscles. The log canoes made a sharp change of heading and gently nosed into the currentless shallows, not too far put also hard enough-_-_displaying all the skills of a streambeast.

Grueson still wasn't entirely sure what manner of beast it was that was standing before him on the mossy sward of the bank. It was clearly a rodent of some kind, but whatever type it was was not one that the old shrew had seen before. It was too small to be a rat or squirrel, too big to be a dormouse. It had a blunt, dark gray snout, but it's body was a silvery-white speckled with dabs of dun and slate. It had a short bristly tail like a vole's. It's whiskers appeared to have been singed down to stubs, and it's garb was heavy leather armor studded with pieces of clamshell as extra protection. A sword with much greater heft than a shrew rapier hung at the beast's waist from a gemstone-studded belt. Its eyes were fierce and light blue in color.

"Who're you?" Grueson demanded, breaking the frosty silence that had lingered since they had first spotted the creature. The white beast stared down its nose harshly at the logboats, but said nothing, "Nevermind then-_-_What are ye, strangebeast? Talk!"

The creature thumped its tail twice on the ground, and instantly the woodland fringes were alive with more of the white-furred animals. All were armored in a similar fashion to the first, and armed with some variety of axes, cudgels, swords, spears, and short bows. Flickblade put a cautionary paw on his rapier hilt. The creatures looked war-like even though they were clearly not of a vermin species.

"You are warriors?" The beast finally spoke, it's voice deep and rasping. Grueson removed the paw from his weapon and instead thrust it out.

"Indeed we are. I'm Log-a-Log Grueson Flickblade, Cheiftan of th' Noguos shrews," he introduced himself, "An' who would ye be? What manner of beast are ye?"

"I am Froll Skyslayer, Cheiftan of the Icevole clans," the creature stated simply. He waved a paw over the some twoscore beasts backing him, "We are icevole, but others have called us lemming. We come from far north in the frozen lands, seeking better resources." The icevole eyed the logboats and their well-armed crew once again, so intensely that many of the shrews were forced to look away, "I see that you seek battle. With whom do you quarrel?"

"Th' vermin o' Norwood, Wuulvites!" Grueson barked, admiring the bulk of the many heavily-armored lemming Froll had at his disposal, "You know of 'em?"

"Many moons ago, our journeys were thwarted by the Wuulvite beasts," Skyslayer growled savagely, "We would crush them for their stubborn defiance!"

There was a chorus of snarls and hisses from the icevole mob. Grueson smiled slyly as he waited for the cacophony to die down.

"Aye, we Noguos were jist on th' way t' crushin' those scum," He turned to his followers with a daring grin, "Weren't we, mates?!"

The shrews, too, shouted out loud in agreement with their leader, though not quite as coarsely or fiercely as the lemming pack. Froll Skyslayer also smiled, exposing huge yellowed rodent incisors in a ferocious way.

"I think we shall enjoy working together, Log-a-Log Flickblade."

* * *

Acda was sure that something was wrong. She had not seen many of the union's shrews in over two hours, and that repulsive Grueson Flickblade was not to be seen either. That was strange indeed, especially since the Log-a-Log's uncle had just been in a fight with the shrew leader this morning. The Log-a-Log's pretty young wife paused to straighten a row of small shrew shoulderbows on their racks. Twelve bows appeared to be missing, which wasn't too unusual. But things were starting to come together in a way that made the female shrew extremely uneasy.

Two shrewbabes were playing in the dirt in her path, and she hustled over to stop them before they succeded in eating the piles of powdery soil. Bundling them roughly but carefully under her arms, she marched them off towards the nearest circle of tents.

"Stop yore squirmin' this instant! What were you doin', eating dirt pies? D'you want t' get chalky muzzle?!" she scolded the whining babes, "Where are yore parents?! You go t' them this instant!"

"Mumma lef'," the younger of the two little shrews wailed. Acda quickly put them both down and knelt to their level, holding the crying babes by the shoulders.

"What d'you mean, 'mumma left'? Did she go to tend the fields, or catch watershrimps?"

"Nuh-uh..."the babe snuffled, wiping his running nose on his sleeve, "Mumma go wit' big gwoup. Daddy go too."

Acda was aghast. This sort of thing had never happened before-_-_Noguos parents leaving their little ones unattended for hours. Who could have done such a thing was unthinkable, for Acda could not see how any of her fellow shrews could be so irresponsible.

"Shush, now, come with me, you can stay with me 'til they return," the pretty shrew-wife spoke soothingly, clasping the babes' tiny paws as she led them to the Log-a-Log's tent, "You want t' see th' Log-a-Log? He'll show you two rascals a sword trick if you're good 'uns."

The shrewbabes immediately stopped crying and eagerly tottered along with Acda, behaving themselves surprisingly well. In a short while the three were at the Log-a-Log's tent, which was slightly larger than the other Noguos' tents but otherwise no different in quality. The shrew leader's wife pulled back the tent flap slightly and secured the ties so that it would sta open a little ways.

"Now you lot just scurry about as y' were-but stay in th' tent or within sight o' th' door!", Acda sternly commanded the two little ones. The babes nodded slowly and plopped down, being careful to stay in a direct line of sight of the shrew-wife or anybeast else in the tent. Acda sighed, watching the babies begin a game of stones and acorns and playing it completely outside of the established rules, as very young creatures will, before she turned and ducked into the tent's entrance.

Her mate, Jerro, was home. The shrew leader was lying on his back on a small bundle of the colorful shrew blankets, examining his rapier pensively. He continued turning the light sword around and around in his paws, as if seeking signs of it pitting or rusting, but there were none of these imperfections to be seen-the blade was immaculate. Acda sat down on a separate bundle of textiles, near Jerro.

"Something happening out there?" Jerro asked her, not taking his worried eyes off the rapier's blade. Acda shook her head in bewilderment.

"I couldn't say. It seems so strange out there." she muttered. Jerro sat upright. lowering his sword, "An' there's hardly anybeast about th' camp. I found two young 'uns unattended-said their mother and father had gone off somewhere. I dunno what t' make of it."

Jerro yawned and stretched, setting his rapier down on the blanket beside him.

"Let me speak t' Venroh an' Bankpaw. They'll find out whose young 'uns they are," the Log-a-Log said as he stood, "Then I s'ppose we'll have t' have some sort of disciplinary action. 'Tain't right t' leave your babes behind no matter th' reason."

"I haven't seen Venroh yet," Acda murmured, chewing on a claw nervously, "Bankpaw's over by th' smithy's. I don't know_-_-d'you think something's wrong?"

Jerro sheathed his rapier and stared down at his seated wife, concerned by the very fact that she was concerned.

"D'you think something's wrong?" he asked her back. Acda waved her paw dismissively, not wanting to bother him with her nagging suspicions.

"Oh, I'm just worrying as usual. Find Bankpaw. I'm sure nothin's really wrong..."

Jerro knelt, taking his wife's chin in both paws and looking her straight in the eyes.

"Are you sure?" Acda nodded, "Because ye know you can tell me anything. If you feel fear agin, you come t' me. I am with you no matter what, Acda. Know that." The Log-a-Log rose, gently releasing her and placing a paw resolutely in his sword belt, "I'll be back once I talk t' Bankpaw."

"I'll be waiting," Acda smiled, glad her husband was there to comfort her, no matter what, like a true Noguos.

* * *

Kainna came awake suddenly, a drumbeat throbbing in her head. Her paws were sore and swollen, and somehow she could not move them. Looking down at herself she saw the tightly wound hempen rope pinioning her arms to her body, then tying her legs together. She was propped up against a barrel inside a tent that had been tied from the outside to lock her in. Another shrew lay moaning on the ground nearby, trussed in a similar fashion. Kainna let out a vicious curse.

Then she had an idea as she noticed that her attackers had left her ungagged and unmuzzled. Leaning down, she set her razor-sharp shrew teeth into the rope fibers. After a short while of sawing at it the rope parted, immediately loosening around the aching shrew and falling away. Rubbing life's blood back into her limbs, she crawled over to the other shrew, drawing her rapier and cutting him loose as well. Standing shakily, she let a grim smile cross her face.

"Fools-imagine not takin' my sword, not tyin' my snout. Idiots!" she growled out loud to herself. The newly released shrew in the tent with her cam awake, groaning and rubbing at bruises the mob had inflicted on him by tossing him in their makeshift prison.

"What 'appened? Where's th' others?" he choked, rubbing a bootmark on his throat. Kainna curled her lip to bare her teeth.

"They split, I'll bet my sword on it. Prob'ly gone to th' nearest Wuulvite place t' get themselves killed in some stupid battle!" she spat, piercing the closed tent flap with her blade, "Dirty swine of a husband! He's leadin' 'em t' their doom an' he don't care-he just wants some glory an' vermin blood on 'is sword before he pegs out for good."

The rapier made short work of the canvas flap, slicing a neat slit in it large enough for a shrew to pass easily. The other shrew staggered to his footpaws and followed Kainna outside, blubbering and wailing in hysterics.

"W-we gotta tell Log-a-Log about this! T-there's gonna be a terrible slaughter, he can stop it, can't 'e?! Some of my friends went with that lout! No, don't let 'em be killed by th' vermin-"

"Shut it!" Kainna growled, slapping the shrew lightly on the jaw to bring him to his senses, "You're warnin' nobeast by ditherin' on like that. Shut yore trap an' just follow me!"

The shrew quieted and obeyed, dashing through the Noguos camp after the old female, who was running at a surprisingly swift rate for her age. They skidded to a halt in front of the Log-a-Log's tent, narrowly avoiding colliding with a pair of shrewbabes.

"Log-a-Log Jerro!" Kainna gasped out. It was not the shrew Cheiftan but his wife Acda who came to the entrance, "Where's Jerro?! Why isn't he here?!"

"He just left to speak t' Venroh an' Bankpaw," Acda informed her, startled by the sudden appearance of the two winded shrews, "Why? What has happened?"

"Huh," the old shrew gave a humorless laugh, "Yore mate'll never find Venroh in this camp. He's defected with Grueson along with many scores of our shrews. They are traitors!"

Acda was speechless. She threatened to sink to her knees, all the previous worries she had had that day rushing back to haunt her. She had known something was wrong. Standing and shoving the two infomants aside, the Log-a-Log's wife took off through the camp, sending up a dustcloud in her wake. Alarmed, Kainna's companion made as if to go after her, but the old female stopped him.

"Let 'er be. She's goin' t' find Jerro. Our job is done f'r now..."

* * *

The river of Northstream, though it looked calm enough on the surface, had a strong flow. Bramm could feel its pull as he stood knee-deep in the brown-green waters, a light fishing spear in his hefty paw aimed at the stream's surface. A weasel stood just as deep not too far away, with a similar spear, tracking the movements of a stickleback under the surface. Farther down the stream a rat's head broke the surface, glistening black. Another followed suit a pace away, and between them the two sleek rodents hauled a wire-mesh device to shore, filled with wriggling crustacean shapes. They were the black rats Troggol and Tinga.

There was a notable difference between the races of rats: The brown rats were generally stockier, with shorter tails and some shade of brown or tan fur. The black rats were a bit lither, with longer tails and a greater ability in the water, but not quite as able as a true water rat. One such rat, though a rather small example, lounged on the shore, his vertically flattened swimming tail flicking away inquisitive midges and his naturally waxy fur shining in the late morning sun. With a grin the water rat jumped up and inspected the catch in the wire trap.

"Not bad, not bad. 'Tis a goodly amount of watershrimps," he approved, "Shows that th' river's healthy, this. Good work, Troggol, Tinga."

"Thankee, Ento Smallfang," the male, Troggol, blustered modestly, "but we ain't done yet. There's two more traps out yonder. We could use th' help of a true waterbeast."

"Ah, of course," Ento smiled, pointing out over the stream, "Where do they lie? One below the rapids, two in th' deep ruts by the bends?"

"Aye, y'know more of river yore than us," Tinga chuckled, "They're exactly as ye said."

Bramm left off watching the three rats and turned his eye to the gentle shallows behind him. A number of Norwood youths were splashing about there, some hurling gobs of bankmud at each other and giggling fiendishly. One, a pudgy weasel named Berrynose, was splattered with the goo already, and was whinging about it.

"Not fair! I'm stuck inna mud! Y' can't frow at me!" A fox cub named Reddtail grinned like a demon and ignored the weaselpup's plight, chucking another gob of the substance so that it splatted wetly on the top of Berrynose's head. "Blehh! Reddtail, I'm gonna skelp ya when I gets outta this mud! Nunna!"

At his plaintive shout a kindly brown ratess looked up from attending her own little one, who was scarcely more than an infant. She glared sternly at the youths, but particularly at Reddtail and a black rat of a similar age named Limpkin.

"That's enough you two. Help that pore beast out of that mud this instant or I'll 'ave yore parents make ye clean all the fish th' village creatures catch 'til next full moon! Am I understood?"

"Yes, marm, we understand, marm," the cubs uttered in a dejected chorus. Limpkin and Reddtail then slung each of Berrynose's paws up over their shoulder and heaved him up, pulling him free of the mud morass with a sucking pop. The rat mother beamed, returning to dipping her babe's toes in the very shallowest of the shallows, which resulted in the little beast squealing happily and cooing for more.

Bramm chuckled at the adorable sight. Something large and scaly brushed his tail, and he was instantly alert, hefting the spear.

"Shaggfur," he got his comrade's attention, "Big 'un, this. I think et's a graylin'."

"Don't move, let it check ye out," Shaggfur the weasel cautioned, making painfully slow shuffling pawsteps towards the fox, "Let me at 'em, I don't think ye can reach around that far."

"Aye, that's troo..." Bramm remained still as the weasel inchwormed closer, "Y'd better 'urry yoreself, afore it ets me tailbrush..."

Suddenly Shaggfur lunged, letting the light spear zing forward and strike the large fish. Bramm leaped clear as the huge aquatic animal thrashed powerfully for a moment before it went still, its tall, cobalt blue dorsal fin still raised in a fighting stance. The weasel's aim had been true.

"Whoo, he is a big 'un!" the mustelid grunted as he grabbed hold of the slain fish's tail, attempting to haul it out of the midwaters but not succeeding, "Gimme a hand, you hulkin' brute, will ya?" Bramm smiled triumphantly and grabbed hold of the grayling's massive bullet-shaped head, and between them they managed to drag their catch into the shallows where the babes had ceased playing, oggling the huge creature in wonderment.

"You catchered th' big 'un!" a ferretbabe cried out jubilantly, reaching paws out to touch the scaly hide eagerly. More cubs joined him, oohing and ahhing at the impressive feat and the impressive fish. Berrynose tugged on Bramm's shirt incessantly until the fox turned around.

"Is we gonna eat th' big fish?" The big fox smiled warmly.

"Aye, yunng 'un. That's th' only reason we'd take sich a bonny creature as this," he explained. Berrynose jumped about excitedly.

"I wanner keep th' teeths an' wear 'em like a neck'ace!" the weaselbabe exclaimed. Bramm laughed out loud.

"Hahaharr! Well, we kin do that too, then. Waste not."

Ento Smallfang had come over at the commotion, his eyes widened.

"Cor, blimey! How'dye manage that great monster of a fish?! Th' brute's as big as you!" he exclaimed in amazement, running a paw over the mighty signature fin of the fish. Bramm grinned broadly and toothily, looking on proudly as Shaggfur attempted to measure the water beast using his paws.

"Actu'lly, 'twas Shagg 'ere what done it," the fox corrected, causing the weasel to puff out his narrow chest, "I was only th' bait, but I guess that's 'elpin'."

Ento nodded with satisfaction, still examining the grayling, peering at its bright eyes, its vibrant crimson gill rakers, even checking the base of its tailfin for signs of leeches. Eventually he stood back and crossed his paws.

"Aye, a prime example of a fish ye got there. Not a sign o' sickness in 'im-not even a single leech bite. Good work, young 'un!" Shagg snickered at the somewhat short water rat's attitude.

"Oi, you ain't but a few seasons older'n Brammy," he pointed out, "Whats with th' 'young 'un'? Ain't we yore mates still? You 'aven't gotten a big 'ead from bein' a fightin' beast in th' militia, 'ave you, eh?"

The water rat playfully initiated a tussle, grabbing up the younger weasel in a headlock. Even though the rat was a bit smaller it was clear he had received superb training, as he soon had the tittering weasel on the ground, the musteline creature begging him to stop.

"Och! I quit! I give! Bramm, 'elp me, mate! 'E's ticklin' me somthin' awful!" the weasel squealed, while Bramm shook his head.

"Nobeast e'er got tickled t' death," the fox said dismissively with a sly wink. Ento sat on Shaggfur's chest and caught his breath.

"Whew! how'm I th' one winded if ye were gettin' all th' punishment?" he wondered aloud. Standing he clapped a paw on Bramm's hefty shoulder, "Aye, I'd better be off, got t' help those two with their traps. We might need a few more fish yet, lots a hungry mouths tend t' show up at feasttimes."

"Aye, we'll catch a few more, then 'ead in with th' liddle 'uns," Bramm agreed, adjusting his tunic slightly. Ento nodded in acknowledgement before turning to go, trotting at a goodly pace back downriver to where Troggol and Tinga were diving for the second trap. The large fox sighed, and the weasel struggled upright.

"Ouch! That fellow's got a wicked grip," Shaggfur commented as he felt an accidental bruise forming under his pelt, "Must be th' militia trainin'. Hellsteeth, why d'we 'ave t' wait 'til autumn t' go join th' Companys?"

"We ain't old 'nough yet," the fox reminded him as the sloughed into the midwaters again, "b'sides, recruitment's always in autumm. 'As been since afore we was born, b'fore our maters was born too."

"I know, but I don't like it," the weasel grumbled, taking an experimental jab at a chub minnow crossing his path. Bramm stabbed downwards, bringing up a mid-sized trout, which he snatched from the waters deftly before it sped off downstream and out of reach. He hucked it over his shoulder, and it landed with a dull wet slap next to the beached grayling giant, "Good 'un." he complimented.

The babes were playing around again, splashing, hurling mudballs, chasing stream insects and pestering their adult supervision, the brown rat mother, about all manner of childish issues.

"Missus Wheatberry, I wanna jump on Bewynose's stummich. Canna?"

"No, ye may not. Ye'd hurt pore Berrynose, be'avin' like that. Ye mind yore fellows' feelings, now."

"Marm Wheatberry, izzit okay t' eat mayflies?"

"No! Put that back! 'Ow'd ye feel if'n ye were that mayfly? Let 'im go, sharpish!"

"Wheatberry, marm, are rocks alive?"

"I never seen 'em move about, an' they sure don't grow, so no."

"Heheheh! I got a good idea for a prank now!" Shaggfur cackled, rubbing his paws together, "Rocks don't grow, do they? Well, we shall see!"

"Yew git..."Bramm rolled his eyes. The weasel ignored him, still giggling mischievously. The sun approached noontide.

* * *

Froll Skyslayer, the Chieftan of the Icevole Clans of the far northern wastes, was just as ruthless and cunning a beast as Grueson had made him out to be. The band of lemming were warriors and raiders, slaughtering any groups they came across that they could get away with and purloining their supplies. There were approximately forty of them, give or take a few, and all were heavily armed and fierce fighters. Soon after the negotiations between the conniving shrew deserter and the savage lemming warcheif were settled they revealed that they also had possession of a longship: Carved of a massive oak and in the shape of a mysterious seabeast, the efficient and versatile vessel could seat every icevole with room to spare. Twenty of the hulking rodent brutes carried the boat out on their shoulders and slid it roughly into the water, then clambered aboard in a flurry and immediately set up a rowing pattern, following the Noguos band easily.

The fearsome icvole stared out over the bows, contemplating his newest ally. None of his allies ever lasted long; the ermine had all been slain in battle, the gyrfalcon had defied him and thusly had to be dealt with, and the gray rats had been planning treachery the entire time, so they had been taken care of as well. Idly he wondered how the next attempted coup would work, and how he would put it down. He knew it was only a matter of time. No decent creature knowingly joined up with the icevoles-_-_and those that did were always surprised at their life of banditry whenever they found out. Froll knew that this Flickblade shrew was not one of the latter, but his followers were. He was relieved to know then that their targets were of specie many of these southerners collectively called "vermin". That meant it was easy to come up with some excuse to slay them with impunity.

"Ho-Friend Grueson," Skyslayer called out, causing the fat shrew to turn in his logboat's prow, "When we reach the camp of the vermin, what may my killers expect? One hundred? Two hundred?"

"Hahar, 'tis many o' th' verminous scum," Grueson answered with a sneer, tapping his snout knowingly, "Over two 'undred, nearly three, in total. But only about seven'y are proper warbeasts!"

Froll and his creatures laughed raucously, as if amused by such a tiny force facing them. The icevole chief pounded his armored chest with a clenched paw.

"Hah! Seventy warriors is half of what it takes to challenge my staunch fighters! Especially if they be mere vermin louts!" His cronies roared appreciatively in response, so loudly and coarsely that birds of all kinds were startled from the trees lining the river. There was such a clamor of banging shields and clanging weapons shoals of fish passing under the logboats and longship turned and scattered, darting into the reeds and gnarled underwater tree roots for safety. A young shrew up near Grueson winced and pulled his bright green bandanna down over his ears, muttering in distaste.

"Yeah, that's mighty clever o' those strangebeasts-_-_make as much noise as possible an' warn all th' vermin that we're comin'... Ouch!"

Grueson withdrew his paw from where he'd cuffed the other shrew and leaned down close so only his victim could hear him.

"One more word outta ye about our brothers-in-arms an' I'll tie ye with yore own belt an' lob ye in th' stream. 'Ow's that sound, eh?" he hissed, "No more whisperin' t' yoreself, I warn ye. That goes f'r all of youse!" He called back to his shrew wargang, paw tapping meaningfully on the scabbard of his main gauche. The shrews appeared alarmed but not surprised. It was no secret that their new leader had a temper. The shrew who had spoken under his breath bit his lip and rowed more strongly, choosing to direct his bad feelings towards the Wuulvites they were out to destroy. Froll watched the exchange impassively, then nudged a female lemming by his side.

"Shukkel, when we reach the vermin place, tell our warriors that there is to be no looting or burning or disobeying of our allies' Log-a-Log-not yet. Only when the shrews all leave may we return to our usual business." Shukkel, who was the only female, and also the only one of the icevoles clad in faded rags as opposed to armor, nodded in meek servile understanding and hurried to do her Chief's bidding. She looked tired and old, with much more white on her than the others. She carried no weapon, not even a small dagger. Malebeasts shoved her aside as if she did not exist as a matter of course as she shuffled along, whispering Skyslayer's orders into the ear of everybeast from the front to the back of the vessel. Froll payed her no mind at all. He was eyeing Grueson again, silently watching his new comrade with narrowed eyes as if trying to read the creature's thoughts. Nobeast was ever sure if this was possible for the icevole. For Flickblade's sake it was imperative that he not be.

* * *

There was no doubt now. Grueson Flickblade, uncle to the Log-a-Log Jerro of the Noguos, was a traitor. Worse still, the headcount that the shrew leader had ordered confirmed that over four score of his shrews had joined the dark-eyed shrew on his perilous venture to sack Norwood. Jerro had been afraid of this. He had never known the Wuulvites to conquer or pillage as he had been taught all vermin did, but he knew that even this shred of decency displayed by their nation might disintegrate should they be provoked. He didn't pretend to understand the motivations of his rat, weasel and vulpine neighbors, but what he knew of his own folks' ideology told him that if Norwood were assaulted, no matter the outcome, the Wuulvites' standing army would come for those who were thought to be responsible. The Log-a-Log did not dare to imagine what they would do to his people-the tales he'd heard of vermin were enough to make his fur stand up on end.

Jerro shook his head to clear it. Standing on the bank where their tribe had left their boats tied, he should have seen twenty large log canoes, constructed of burned-out ashes and maples, but he only saw eight still moored there. His uncle had to have been the thief. A sweaty paw rubbed his temples. Now that Grueson was a boat-robber there was only one punishment for him by the bylaws of the shrew unions. Death. That had always been the way; nobeast had expected a fellow shrew to be a boat thief, only vermin, but there it was. There was no going back for the Log-a-Log's uncle or the Log-a-Log. Flickblade had to be put to death, preferably before inciting a war with the relatively invincible Wuulvites.

"Bankpaw, gather every fighter still remainin'," Jerro commanded his aide, a tall lanky shrew which stood nearby, shaking his head at the scene of the crime, "Bring them here. If we can't all fit in the logboats that're left, we'll 'ave t' split ourselves. I will lead the land group-you tend t' th' water group."

"T' catch them we'll 'ave t' move double-time," Bankpaw observed astutely, picking up a sawn-off hemp hawser that had once secured a logboat, "That might be too 'ard on our shrews. We may not be in top fightin' form when we catch them up."

"It's a risk we have t' take." Jerro growled, clutching at his rapier's hilt instinctively. "Th' sooner we go th' better. I know th' waters much better than th' old traitorous one. We will catch him, it's just a matter of when."

From back on the path to the Noguos camp, Acda watched the two experienced warriors examining the site of Grueson's departure. A tear slipped loose from her eye, and she hurried to stop it running down her cheek with a paw. Everything seemed to be going awry. She wasn't sure she could completely trust her fellow Noguos anymore, nevermind otherbeasts. What had happened? Had some of their shrews always been so selfish? She had never recalled seeing such wickedness from them when she was younger. What was the world coming to, when goodbeasts would stab you in the back and vermin threats were nowhere to be found? Where were the days of yore she'd heard so often on fireside nights, listening to the stories of Log-a-Logs of old and neighboring lands-where immaculate woodlanders strove gallantly to defeat a tyrannous and eager horde of filthy, rotten-to-the-bone rats, stoats, wildcats or marten? Did the world change in her twenty seasons? Or... had it always been less black and white, she just didn't see it? Her chest burning in hatred for the one who had stolen her trust of her comrades away, Acda stormed down to the waterside, surprising Bankpaw and drawing a stunned look from her mate as she vaulted over the side of one of the logboats.

"What are ye doin'?" Jerro asked her, "You're not comin' with us, are ye?"

"I am a Noguos shrew, aren't I?" Acda snapped, making the vessel ready for lauch at lightning speed, "Where you go, I go. That is the oath we took. Did you forget?"

Jerro opened his mouth to voice a complaint but paused. It was taboo to the shrew unions to go back on any vow, even a marriage vow. Though he desperately did not wish to see his beloved anywhere near such a dangerous battle, he relented, lowering his head.

"I remember fine." he murmured, "You come along then. Bankpaw, get th' others. We move as soon as we're all here, and no later."

Bankpaw returned only a moment later, a column of glowering Noguos in his wake. There had almost been no need for Bankpaw to pass along Jerro's commands. Each Noguos shrew knew what needed to be done without a single hesitation. They launched shortly after noontide, the eight logboats being rowed furiously, at a pace that seemed liable to kill the shrews with exhaustion. Close to forty shrews could not fit in the boats that had remained, so Log-a-Log Jerro led them at a constant trot on the stream banks, fatigue seeming to not matter, briars going unfelt. The only thought of the shrews was that of revenge now.


	4. The Battle In Earnest: Part I

Tales of Iffrit

Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector

(Part III)

In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's _Redwall_ Novels

"Alright, ye mob of wild pups, out of th' water, now."

The rattess nanny Wheatberry was having quite a time of it rounding up all the stray babes and convincing them to leave the muddy river shallows for slightly less fun activities on land. Thankfully she now had Bramm and Shaggfur to help her, as they returned fresh from delivering their bounteous catches to the village's butcher to be made ready for the feast. The fox was easily able to scold his little brother, Reddtail, into obedience, but Limpkin, Berrynose and the other young creatures were a much tougher proposition.

"C'mon you, we need t' git you cleaned up," Bramm tried again, almost begging the chubby little weasel darting just out of his grasp, "Lissen t' yore nanna."

"Ah don' wanna-_-_she putsda soap in me eaws!" the pouting weaselbabe whined shrilly, dodging Shaggfur's attempt to grab him by the scruff. Wheatberry scowled at the difficult child and tightened her hold on her now-sleeping infant, quivering with frustration that she fought to keep a lid on.

"You get yore scummy hide up 'ere this instant! My Drivenn needs 'is nap right now, an' you're takin' up 'is valu'ble sleepin' time by bein' selfish! Now get on this bank!"

Bramm had caught a giggling stoat cub by the tail, who yowled excitedly and wriggled about in his grasp like an eel. Struggling with the squirmy thing, the big fox carted the babe over to a patch of dry grass and firmly plopped the stoatbabe down on his bottom.

"Now stay there!" he pointed at the stoat sternly. The babe sniggered sheepishly and fidgeted with a clamshell on the ground. Bramm took off again, this time after a little female weasel who was about to dive into the mud again.

"Savage little..." Shaggfur did not finish his thought before another young rat ducked out of his watch and did a cannonball into the calmer waters, "Hey! What'd I just tell ya?! Y' need a bath before th' feast, or ye'll smell like riverbottom an' fish an' th' grownbeasts'll make ye leave!"

The rat hastened to escape the apparently stench-laden water, shaking vigorously like a dog and hurrying back into the small crowd of young ones who were choosing to cooperate. Berrynose turned suddenly towards the older weasel, his eyes widened in shock.

"We no' get pud?! Why no'?!" he screamed. The fat little creature tottered at his fastest pace, wriggling his way out of the deep mud he was leg-deep in and laboriously returning to the shore. All other cheeky truants had been reined in; the cubs of all species stood in a disorganized blob being sternly watched by Wheatberry and Bramm as they waited on Berrynose to get out of the stream. Shaggfur was aiding the pudgy little beast, but it was not easy. The brat was slippery with mud and did not seem too accustomed to much physical work, continuing to become bogged down in the sticky bank morass. Shagg called encouragement while at the same time stifling chuckles at the fuming little creature's pathetic efforts.

"That's it, mate, take it slow. It ain't speed that's important," the weasel held out a paw as Berrynose neared, ready to simply pull the babe out and get the fuss over with, "Reach out, Berrynose, little farther, ye got it."

All the while, the rats Troggol and Tinga, together with Ento Smallfang, were taking turns submerging themselves by the last of the watershrimp traps, trying to work loose a tricky anchoring cord that was proving tangled and difficult to untie. Tinga came up with a sharp gasp, having been down beneath the lapping current for over two minutes.

"I can't get it. I think 'tis stuck on this rock, but I can't find th' knot when I look," she explained, becoming a bit frustrated. Ento began taking deep breaths in preparation, flooding his lungs with life-giving air.

"Lemme take a look real quick," Smallfang offered curtly, then slipped under the stream's surface, completely disappearing. There was a long suspenseful wait, almost too long. Then, unexpectedly, the water rat reappeared on the opposite side of the trap, shaking muddy water from his ears and whiskers. The black rats awaited Ento's verdict anxiously.

"'Tis around that rock, alright, but it's also twisted up in some deadfall at th' bottom, from 'ere all th' way t' there," he indicated with a wide gesture, "'Old on, lemme get on this side, an' you'n' Tinga get on that other side, an' we'll see if we can't shake th' line loose from both sides."

Moving into position, the teamwork of the rats proved instantly successful. They submerged together on opposite sides of the shrimp trap, then a great flume of stirred-up river mud and debris rose in the surrounding waters as the three beasts shuffled the whole trap from side to side, shimmying the tightly jammed anchor cord from the jetsam it was entangled in and allowing the algae-slimed line to bob free, floating due to the air bubbles in the aquatic plants. Tinga grasped it with a grimace as the other two came up for air.

"Yech. Dunno why ye insist on leavin' th' traps out 'ere so long," she grumbled, picking bits of the stringy green scum from the rope. Troggol shot her a look as he hefted the trap onto his shoulders.

"Because, if it ain't out long enough we don't catch enough watershrimps," he huffed. Ento shook dead leaves from the bottom from his plastered wet headfur and stepped into the argument, but he didn't really appear to side with either of the rats.

"It don't matter how long ye leave it, th' watershrimp come in any'ow," he began, "But th' algae don't hurt it neither. Really it's just a matter of preference."

"Preference that smells like a wet dog mixed with rotten parsnips..." the female muttered to herself. Troggol rolled his eyes, keeping them on his work.

If he had been watching downstream more carefully, what happened next would probably have been avoided. What the black rat missed entirely was not lost to Bramm, who stood frozen in shock at the vision for a full four seconds before he was galvanized into action by the whirr of slingstones.

"Noguoooooooooooos! Logalogalogalogalog!"

"Iiiiiiiiiiicevole! Kiiiiiiiill!"

The discordant war cries clashed together in the river bend, striking a moment of terror into everybeast that heard it. Distant figures of farmbeasts in the fields between Norwood's encircling walls and he streamside stood straight as ramrods, instantly turning to look to where Northstream rounded the low wooded hill-_-_then the figures scattered in a stampede, rats, weasels, stoats, ferrets and foxes all bolting in fright for the nearest gate into the safety of the village. Iffrit was nearly run over by a horde of ratmaids and an old vixen as he opened one such door casually. Clinging to the door's timbers until the fleeing creatures had fled, the dark-furred weasel straightened and watched in horror from the portal:

A dozen logboats and a large longship had slipped into midstream without a sound, creeping around the river's bend and coming unnervingly close to a trio of rats and a crowd of youngsters and their guardians. Iffrit gasped as he realized that two of those babe-watchers were his friends Bramm and Shaggfur, and the third was the rattess Wheatberry, with her infant son Drivenn held tightly in her arms beginning to set up a powerful wail. Bramm suddenly dropped onto all fours in a burst of clear thinking, shouting as he did at the top of his cavernous lungs:

"DUCK!"

The innumerable shrews on the logboats released a volley of stones from their small slings, swift and brutally accurate. Troggol suddenly relaxed, knocked senseless by one slingstone to the jaw, letting the end of the shrimp trap he was carrying sink as he disappeared under the surface. Tinga screamed, but she was cut off as another stone glanced off of her forehead, stunning her as well. Ento, sensing danger and quickly reverting to his battle instinct, did not even turn to see the faces of those attacking him and the other Norwooders as he dove, shooting through the water as he sought a place where the stones couldn't strike him.

Froll set up a cackle, urging his few archers to string up their bows and fire at will. The lemming archers were clearly not used to doing long-distance battle, preferring their swords and war hammers and such. Most of the some fifteen arrows missed and only served as a further reason for the shorebound beasts to duck and cover. One which was a bit more true in flight found its way into Berrynose's back.

"Aiiiieyaah!" the rat nurse's cry was as if she herself had been hit, and she immediately stood and rushed towards the fallen weaselbabe, face-down in the edge of the river. Shaggfur stopped her with a strong paw, finding it hard to restrain to flailing, shrieking rattess. Drivenn began howling in terror, having no understanding of what was happening.

"Th' gate, get ye t' th' gate!", Bramm commanded hoarsely, shoving and pushing the shivering masses on the ground towards the fields and walls of Norwood, "Run now! We're bein' attacked! AAGH!" The fox gave a sharp yelp as an arrow grazed his flank, tearing a large hole in his tunic and opening a shallow wound in his side. Hefting his fishing spear, the vulpine turned furiously and threw the weapon for all he was worth, tripping and falling in the followthrough from the painful injury to his side.

A shrew drew back in alarm as the spear embedded itself in the bottom of the lead logboat, right where he had been standing before he had stepped back to whirl his sling. Water seeped into the bottom of the vessel; the spear had gone all the way through the wood hull and streamwater was leaking in. Grueson averted a panic in his creatures, hurling wooden bowls and various drinking vessels at several of the shrews.

"Shuddap an' bail! This is nothin'!" Flickblade roared confidently, drawing his rapier and pointing towards the shores of Norwood, "Put in and stand th' boat up lengthwise! Move yoreselves!"

Reddtail leaped into the shallows, dragging and pulling at the lifeless carcass of the young weasel with tears smearing the mud upon his face. Bramm, limping awkwardly now that he was weaponless, grabbed his younger sibling roughly and threw him over his shoulder, forcing the cub to drop Berrynose.

"Concentrate on th' livin', bairn!" the fox grunted, sending the terrified babes and youngbeasts before him as he pushed forward laboriously in the direction of the opened gate, "Where's th' alarum?! There should've been an alarum!"

As if on cue, shouts were heard form inside the confines of the village, as well as a unified roar, a hastened version of a Wuulvite warcry:

"RADDHIYAAAAAH! WUUUUUUUULVIIIIIITE!"

Two arrows, larger than the lemming ones by a wide margin, whizzed down from slats near the top of the village's short walls. A shrew and an icevole fell suddenly backwards, splashing into the stream, as they were simultaneously struck with Wuulvite arrows. Froll rose a paw in a jerking motion, signalling his savage raiders to raise their round shields of wood and iron. The shrews, having no such variety of gear, began falling in considerable number as Norwood archers and slingers, mostly militiabeasts but also a few commoners who had armed themselves with hunting weapons, mounted the posts along the southern portion of the wall and began fighting back. No slingstone could reach them-_-_they were too far away and too high up, and protected by wooden slats which dropped down when the archer was done firing to boot. Grueson cursed, clubbing a shrew near him with the hilt of his sword.

"Why aren't we on shore already?! I thought I told ye t' git on shore an' stand this boat up!", he snarled, snatching up an oar and poling the log canoe towards the bank with sheer brute strength, "Do I 'ave t' do ev'rythin' meself?! Move, laggards!"

* * *

The vixen Mistletoe was the mother of Bramm and Reddtail and one of the experts in healing in the village of Norwood, but she was also something else significant. Unlike most foxes from the western areas, she was darker in fur and browner. Her eyes were dark navy blue, rather than the usual amber, pale green or brown. These traits marked her as having Volmani blood, a particular race of foxes from the far east. This was no great surprise; many vermin from many outside regions who knew of the Wuulvite Kingdom had traveled here, seeking a life of fairness and opportunity, away from the squalor and inequality of their former lives.

Her sister, Shanna Wisetung, was also a healer, but not to the same degree. The younger vixen was more of a warbeast, being a militia member of the elite Guard Unit, a division of fighters who were allowed to carry any manner of weapon rather than a specific type like the bows and slings of Missile or the swords and light axes of Light Infantry. Shanna had chosen a long trident and a curved messer sword, a deadly combination against foebeasts and herbs alike. At the moment, she was aiding her healer sister, using her blade to chop the herb fumitory into tiny slivers for an herbal paste.

Mistletoe adjusted the deep violet-hued shawl about her shoulders. Her muzzle was starting to grey already, she noticed it self-consciously everytime she saw her reflection in her glass decoction dishes and beakers. With a slight sigh she turned to see if her sister was ready with the fumitory yet. The younger vixen was hacking away, her blade stained green from the soft seagreen leaves, almost through with the large pile of the plants. Mistletoe shuffled over, cupping her paws gently around the moist mash and scooping it up carefully to take it over to where she could transform it into health-restoring tonics.

Both Shanna and Mistletoe jumped with alarm as the door to their little cottage clinic burst open and an exhausted band of creatures tripped their way inside, most of them wounded. After seeing the face of the first fox who came in Mistletoe's face creased with worry and she bustled over to him in a bit of a panic, groping her son's shoulders and burying him in questions.

"Bramm! Ye've been hurt! What 'appened?! Where's yunng Reddtail?!"

Bramm, wincing as the healer's paw discovered his arrow wound, took his mother's paws in his to calm her, stepping aside a pace to allow the others to enter and Reddtail to be visible behind him. The fox cub was shaking and said nothing; he just walked past his brother, mother and aunt and found a corner to sit down in comfortably. Shanna quickly went to the task of accommodating the overflow of injured and shaken creatures, which she noticed were overwhelmingly young creatures or bawling babes. She split them efficiently into two groups: Those who would need to be cared for now and those who were only slightly hurt. Bramm was one of the worst thanks to the icevoles' terrible accuracy. The grand majority were slingstone wounds-_-_bad bruises, split scalps, welt-ridden tails and swollen paws. A few unconscious creatures were carted in later, borne on makeshift stretchers by some of the militiabeasts. Shanna listened carefully as a chaperoning weasel-_-_an obvious soldier named Sherpp Fogrunner and the father of Raosk-_-_informed her of what had occured. The lean mustelid was in his issue armor and fully armed: A light and beautifully crafted chainmail tunic, overlaid with a tabard in Wuulvite green that hid the fact that the chainmail was also studded in places with plates of steel. The helm was a simple round affair, steel as well with more chainmail hanging down as neckguards, and his weapons were typical of the atypical Guard Unit-_-_a long-handled battleaxe with a single metal head and a sling-like weapon known as a arrowslinger. A beltpouch of the ammunition for this weapon hung at the weasel's belt; heavy, arrowhead-shaped darts flighted with several duck feathers. Sherpp let his axe hang loosely in his paw, eying his back as if watching for enemies, as he muttered the strange and terrible news to the confused vixen healer.

"It's those damned shrews agin, the Noguos," he growled, "They came up th' river in silence an' ambushed a band o' playin' youngbeasts. Troggol an' Tinga are missin', as is Ento Smallfang. Berrynose the weasel cub is dead-_-_one o' th' cowards shot 'em in th' back while 'e was runnin'. We've got 'em pinned down with archers an' slingbeasts on th' south wall fer now, but who know how long that'll last. There's more 'n' a hundred of 'em countin' the lemming..."

"Lemming, this far south?" Shanna gasped, overhearing the information. Sherpp nodded gravely.

"Aye, they come an' go where they please, killin' an' burnin' any ripe victims they kin find. Surprises me th' shrews joined up with 'em."

"What has Captain Warscythe ordered?" Mistletoe chewed a claw nervously. Sherpp bared his teeth as he responded, loud enough for all the creatures inside, and some of them loitering curiously outside, to hear:

"Th' Chief wants all fightin' beasts not already holdin' th' foebeast off on the wall t' gather in the Council Shelter. He says come fully armed an' armored fer battle!"

* * *

Grueson ducked as a Wuulvite javelineer once again had the fat old shrew in his sights. He felt the wind off the long light steel-tipped projectile, and heard the scream as the unlucky shrew that had been standing behind him was struck in the chest instead of he. The fighting was now slowing to a stalemate in the absence of any other actions being taken by the aggressors in this situation. As Flickblade had ordered, the shrews had all nosed their logboats ashore and together heaved the vessels up on to their sides, forming a shield against the Norwooders' missiles. Loach's father Wilneg was in charge of the rats, weasels, stoats, ferrets and foxes on the south-facing wall. He stood and whirled his plumbata sling, or dartslinger. It was like Sherpp's except that the darts it fired were smaller and lacked flights. Narrowing his dominant eye, the tall, lean ferret resisted blinking as a slingstone grazed off his helm, then launched the metal dart. An icevole raider was his target, the creature's footpaw jutting out from behind the beached longship that was also being used as a barrier. The lemming roared as the pointed metal stuck into the footpaw, embedded in the bone and effectively taking the beast out of the fight. Wilneg smiled grimly, commenting to another warrior beside him, another veteran ferret named Drubber Hidemaul.

"Don't give 'em an' inch, that's what I say," Loach's father said curtly. Drubber nodded in agreement, scowling as he nocked an arrow to his shoulder bow and staked out an area of one of the logboats, waiting for an enemy head to offer itself as a target, "Let 'em know we ain't kiddin' with 'em. If we keep it up may'ap they'll give it up."

"We'll be in trouble if they change position t' nearer th' walls, "Drubber observed, "We lose track of 'em, an' they can scheme to pass our walls however they want. It'll make it hard t' stop a breach."

"Aye, yore right. We need those infantrybeasts soon t' repel wall-crossers," Wilneg watched as Drubber loosed his arrow, pinning a shrew's paw to the logboat he was peering around, "Chief Raegnor an' Lady Snakeroot're workin' on it."

* * *

Water went by in a rush as Ento opened his eyes, the current making little difference to his speed and agility in the water. He had drifted downstream a bit, disappearing to the eyes of those on the shore and to his attackers, sweeping the river bottom back and forth with desperate claws. The small stocky water rat had seen Troggol and Tinga go down, and senseless in the water they were sure to drown. After several minutes of searching his whole chest burned, begging for air, and he conceded that it was probably a futile effort to save them now.

With a harsh wheeze the rat tipped his snout out of the water, spy-hopping as a whale might do and offering very little of himself up to arrows or stones. A hundred paces or more upstream the war party of shrews could be seen, hunkering behind their boats. A huge lemming was conversing with a somewhat large fat shrew with thoroughly ashy fur; they looked to be the leaders of the rabble. Ento, having gotten a relieving breath, sunk back down and kept his eyes open as he crept along the bottom, grasping with all four paws and beating his flattened tail strongly to stay on the bottom. If he moved slowly and conserved his energy he could canvass the whole streambed up to the north wall where the river curved about again, but only if he was careful and stayed out of sight. If he could not bring the two Norwood rats back alive, he could at least do their families right and recover their bodies.

Smallfang could still see the figures of the shrew assailants through the muted brown river sediments. They appeared to be mostly gathered behind the two leftmost boats, with a scant few still slinging from behind the others. His tactical training from his few seasons in the army of the Wuulvites told him that they were going to attempt a distractionary measure, probably while the remainder of the force came around the eastern, wooded side of the township in search of a place to go over the wall. Though he didn't know quite how they would do so, Ento knew his reconnaissance would be valuable to his side.

The water rat became serious about swimming then, tucking his limbs in close to his body and giving a strong flick of his swimming tail. He shot off, giving off a wake of ripples and stirred-up mud, as fast as any watervole or otter.

And quite a bit faster than a water shrew.


	5. The Battle In Earnest: Part II

Tales of Iffrit

Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector

(Part IV)

In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's _Redwall_ Novels

* * *

The Council Shelter was a big foursquare building built almost entirely of granite stone blocks with the exception of the roof, which was timber slats overlaid with greenish slate shingling. The entryway was large and open, almost as if the southern side of the shelter had no wall. The center of the massive single room was a plain soot-smudged fireplace. Two fireplaces, actually, one pointing east and one west in order to heat the entire space effectively. A large oakwood table was near this double-hearth, around which stood all of the prominent creatures of the village, with the obvious exception of Sherpp Fogrunner (who was with a small squad patrolling the other walls searching for attempted breaches) and Wilneg (who was leading the effort to keep the shrews and lemmings in their defensive position). Raegnor Warscythe stood half a paw over the others, made to look larger with his war gear. Nearly eighty Norwooders ready for battle stood patiently awaiting what the Cheiftan would say, each either kitted out in militiabeast gear or in chainmail and with weapons lent from the forge of Lady Snakeroot. About sixty were members of the Wuulvites' volunteer army, or were among the youngbeasts soon to join, but the rest were commoners with some fighting skill. Those in the gathering that were part of this group shuffled nervously, unsure of how useful they would really be against a small brigade of renowned fighters like the Noguos.

Captain Warscythe raised his left paw upon which an issue targe shield was strapped. Swiftly the room grew silent as a tomb, every eye on the craggy-featured weasel warrior.

"Norwooders, soldiers an' common creatures alike, in a few moments we'll be marchin' out of here to face an army of foebeast which have come to our gates with foul intentions," he began gruffly, his stalwart face barely emoting, "Some of ye may be concerned that there are more than a hundred of 'em. 'Tis true they outnumber us close t' two t' one, but we have th' advantage of walls, and our fightin' beasts know full well how t' use 'em." At this several of the more sure-looking soldiers nodded and added short murmurs of "That's right" and "Aye, we do know that".

"Our nation 'as proved itself in th' past," Raegnor started again, barking roughly over the crowd's exuberant affirmations, "Whether it be Corsairs tryin' t' raid our shores, robber bands targetin' our age-old homes, or th' woodlanders strikin' out against us for whatever reasons they may 'ave, we have always stood firm! An' no matter th' obstacle, our folk have always prevailed with a bit of our Wuulvite pride, our great skills, an' our savvy preparedness." The response to this was much louder and more unified, a lusty collection of cries and howls in agreement. Raegnor placed a paw on the hilt of his fine, black-handled broadsword, drawing it out slowly and meaningfully as he finished his warspeech:

"We've done this before, an' we can do it again. We are Wuulvite-_-_we fought our way up from degradation and despair an' nobeast in th' land dare t' threaten to force it upon us again so lightly if they wish to live!"

This time the shouts and yells transformed into an almost choir-like roar, echoing an ancient war cry that each rodent, mustelid and vulpine creature knew well:

"RAH-DDI-YAH! RAH-DDI-YAH! WE ARE WUUUUUUULVIIIITE!"

* * *

After the rousing, the town defenders gathered in the two large lawns on either side of the Council Shelter. The sixty militiabeasts stood in ranks near the front, facing the wall where most of the fighting was taking place, their eyes flicking back and forth between their military and non-military leaders having a private discussion of strategy by the open well and the lulled action on the walltops. Occasionally Wilneg, Drubber and the others would fire off an opportunistic arrow or sling a dart or stone through the trapdoor slats to keep the shrews and lemming in line, but other than that and the sharp crack of slingstones retaliating against the now-closed slats there was no action. Several of the veterans were of the opinion that something had gone awry with the Noguos strike, and that if they hadn't had the first warnings as quick as they did their position would be much more dire. They were grim but sure of themselves, psyching up the non-fighters with their glib banter of war.

"It's almost as if they didn't 'ave a plan," the fox Maltfur scoffed, leaning on his hooked halfpike and shouldering his own heavy targe shield, "Just came on upriver an' jumped at us like a lizard on a beetle. With those northland raiders with 'em it don't surprise me..."

"Don't be daft," a muscular brown rat chided him, "They 'ave a plan. Yew didn't see it, but they 'ad those log-made canoes o' theirs turned up t' block shafts an' stones. They know a thing or two about fightin'."

"I was deployed t' th' scrub belt south o' Snowgap when those icevoles attacked there seven seasons ago," an older female ferret named Snowheron remembered, "They were sackin' every den or buildin' they came across up there. Used a longship like that'n' t' knock doors off their hinges."

"Wouldn't work here," the rat shook his head, taking a final look at the sharpness of his falchion, "Shanna, Saulk an' a few o' th' craftsbeasts already shored 'em up tight. There's four foot o' sandbags be'ind those gates an' solid oak bars. A ballista stone couldn't budge 'em now."

"Ballista?!" a female weasel started, bristling as she gripped her longaxe tighter, "Th' foebeast 'ave a ballista?"

"Goodness, no, Wrenn," Maltfur stayed her paw, not wanting the worked-up beast to injure the creatures immediately to her right and left with a jerking weapon, "Kirtt 'ere was just makin' a figure o' speech. They don't 'ave a ballista. They barely 'ave a decent archer between all of 'em."

"You better watch what ye say," Snowheron warned, "There was nothin' wrong with their aim seven seasons back. It may be a fluke, t' get us t' lower our expectations on 'em. Assume they're all as good shots as th' shrews, an' you'll live longer."

Farther back, the non-warriors and those who had not endured their training as of yet were gathered, acting as back-up to the bona fide warbeasts should they need the push of extra troops. The gear and armor of these Norwooders was a bit more hodge-podged: Swordbeasts and archers mingled with those carrying gaffed pikes, lances, slings for both stone and dart, staves, cudgels, spears, daggers, knives and axes. Shield placement was random, which a fierce-looking female rat soldier was trying to remedy, steering those with some variety of shield to the outsides and front of the bunch. Iffrit stood near the very back, anxiously standing up on the tips of his toeclaws for a better look at what was going on with his father and the village's council members by the well. He felt a bit peeved that he didn't get to come closer to the wall. As he was, he was nearly cornered against the side of Veeral Winebeast's distillery. The fumes from the rat winemaker's spirits wafted out from the low, sloping shack and into the nostrils of Iffrit and his friends as they scuffed the earth and grass in waiting.

"Graah," Iffrit snarled, beginning to pace back and forth between the distillery wall and the right rear flank of the Wuulvite militiabeasts. Violet left off obsessively waxing her bowstring and gave the dark-furred weasel a look of concern, but chose to say nothing, "Why don't we move already! Th' enemy's out there an' they've slain a babe! They've wounded an' terrorized two dozen of us! Why aren't we doing anything! Ow!"

Raosk blinked as he watched Iffrit sit down abruptly, nursing his stubbed toe. The agitated weasel had kicked a stone fiercely out of frustration, not anticipating it to be embedded deeply in the ground. Sleetpad and Furcrest both gave him a strange look, one bordering on worry but also a little chiding.

"Steady on, mate, "the young ratmaid scolded, putting her sling back into its beltpouch with the stones she'd selected.

"Aye, use that kick on th' shrewmice, why don't ya," the mohawked stoat grinned. A frosty look from the weasel killed his cheerful expression instantly.

"It's not fair!" he growled, pawing the shortsword at his side, "Why not get out there right now an' put paid t' those murderers?! They don't deserve t' be out there free as th' wind!"

"Don't we 'ave bigger problems than that, firemouth?" Doulthe's brow furrowed as he interrupted the other youngbeast's rant, "Pick yer battles! We'd all get killed or wounded runnin' out there like a mob o' savages. I thought ye were smarter'n' that, Iffrit."

"You callin' me stupid?!" the weasel stood, sore toe forgotten. Raosk and Sleetpad hurried to put themselves partway between the two glaring creatures with raised paws.

"Easy! No need t' fight each other!" the ratmaid yelled at them, voice becoming weepy all of a sudden despite her efforts to contain herself. Raosk said nothing but looked incredibly uneasy. He was not nearly of the size of either combative animal and wasn't sure if either would be so self-aware as to avoid trampling his thin weasely body if they were incensed into a brawl. A fox, almost as young as them and a near-perfect clone of Maltfur, leaned back from the last row of militiabeasts and spat a scathing remark back at all of them:

"Will you all just shuddap already an' be useful? Whaddyou milksops expect t' accomplish, eh? Ye don't 'ave th' sense of a nit. Especially you, Irfgret weasel or whatever yore name i-_-_"

Pushed beyond his capacity for clear thought by his rage, Iffrit dove at the fox mid-sentence and tackled him furiously, knocking the lochaber axe from his russet paws as both beasts collided with the ground in a dust cloud. Before the ambushed vulpine could get injured by the young weasel's flailing fists several militiabeasts crouched down and hoisted the Chieftan's son none too gently off their fellow fighter.

Snapping and still struggling blindly, Iffrit fought to get at his insulter against the combined strength of the two heavily armed stoats securing him. He convinced himself he was doing well, but despite this illusion of his the stoat's brawny arms never budged an inch. Spitting dirt from his mouth, the fox stood up and seethed at the pinned mustelid, his tailfur standing up like a bottlebrush with outrage.

"You dungfaced git!" He exclaimed shrilly, having to be stopped from pummeling the helpless youngbeast by a bow-carrying black rat, "I 'ope you die in th' battle!"

"Better'n' hidin' in th' rootcellar combin' yore brush while th' foebeast makes off with a trade cart! Cowardly cur!" Iffrit shot right back with a knowing fang-bearing smirk. Once again the fox had to be held back as he took an aggressive step towards the bound creature.

"Wormal, no," the rat cautioned, prodding him with the tip of his bow, "Go yonder. Trade spots with Thurna an' let it go."

Drawing himself off haughtily, Wormal scooped up his metal-hafted weapon and strode huffily off, his chainmail tunic clinking slightly. Before Iffrit's face bore too smug an expression the rat turned to him and shook the bow in his face.

"One more like that an' it's three days gaol fer you. I know you don't like that cheeky clattertooth but it don't excuse basely attackin' 'im. Now focus on 'elpin' out with th' fightin'-_-_real 'elpin', mind do what you're told_-_-or go 'ome an' wait fer word on it!"

The stoat infantrybeasts holding Iffrit dropped him abruptly on his shaky footpaws and marched back to their posts. The young weasel glared death at an errant dandelion to avoid the lingering disapproving look from the rat archer. Finally he felt the fearsome gaze lift and sighed, leaning back up against the distillery.

"Maybe I should go home," he murmured angrily, "Nobeast thinks I'm helpin' here, even though this mornin' they was all ajoy for me." Sleetpad's sweet brown eyes widened.

"_We_ don't think you're not helpin'," she offered, clasping her paws together. Iffrit huffed.

"Well, I mean besides you lot an' Bramm an' Shagg. I know you're my mates," he acknowledged. Furcrest and Roask smiled, but not too broadly. They weren't really following the line the hot-headed weasel was taking, but in an effort not to agitate him were keeping their silence. "We all _did_ get into th' militia. That should count f'r somethin'!"

"It does," Doulthe snorted, leaning on a light spear he had borrowed from the armory in lieu of owning a true melee weapon, "We're on th' front lines, aren't we? Well, not th' front. But we're in reasonable danger. They must know we're at least that mature."

"Hunh," Iffrit grunted ambiguously, not eager to agree with the hefty rat so soon after their quarrel. "Mebbe."

"Hush," Violet spoke up, perhaps the most reasonable thing any of the high-strung young creatures had said thusfar, "Lady Snakeroot's comin' this way. She's probably in charge of th' untrained beasts, an' is goin' t' give us instructions."

Shutting their jaws, the youngbeasts all straightened as the golden-eyed weaseless, now clad in a leftover steel chestpiece and gauntlets and using a slim tall pole-cleaver like a walking stick, approached alongside the attentive mass of patchwork warriors. She raised her paws to indicate she wished to speak with them all.

* * *

Smallfang came forth from the murky waters in a whoosh, like a trout leaping for a mayfly, onto the bank, gasping for breath after fighting upstream for over five hundred yards on a single lungful. The patch of reeds he had crawled into crackled and swayed, drawing the attentions of a lone icevole lingering on the edge of the attack front. The shaggy rodent raider's ears perked up, staring at the rustling flora with a suspicious glare, and he drew a short spiked club from a sling on his back and scuttled towards it. Creeping up on the panting rat through the reedstalks, the lemming could scarcely hold back the triumphant smirk as he raised the bludgeon.

Ento could hear the heavy plodding footsteps approaching from behind. Unbeknownst to the Norwooder's stalker his paw slid his curved fighting knife from its holder beneath the hanging edge of his jerkin.

Rolling onto his back, the water rat felt the breeze off the striking club as it sunk into the marshy ground where he had been crawling. The Wuulvite fighter shot both footpaws out and landed the other rodent a double kick to the knees, sending him falling forward, straight onto Ento's thrusting blade. Shoving the large beast's carcass off of him, the rat flicked blood from the knife as he righted himself and fled the scene in a four-pawed scurry. The Noguos and icevoles were distracted for now, but they would soon notice the missing face. He made for the northwest-facing gate at all the speed he could muster in his odd posture, staying low and discreet.

There was nobeast at the gateway, though it was shut tight and clearly fortified from the inside if the edges of old flourbags filled with sand jutting out from the crack beneath it were to be judged. Starting with a tentative scratch, Ento inspected the woodwork and he stone archway around it, seeking a few choice cracks or nooks to aid in his ascent. It would be tricky, as the barrier was designed not to be crossed. With a stifled grunt he began climbing. Though the walls were not nearly as high as those built around proper military fortifications, they were tall enough to discourage most climbers, and most of the stones within reach had been selected for their smoothness. It was difficult even for an experienced athlete like Ento. He went with painful slowness, praying to himself he could keep his muscles from cramping long enough to get at least one paw over the lip of the battlements over twice his height above him.

One paw over the other, Smallfang ascended. His right footpaw slipped once, causing him to clutch the wall in a panic two-thirds of the way to his destination. Eventually, he got going again, easing himself up foot by foot and dragging himself breathlessly over the ramparts. With an exhausted wheeze he slumped against the back of the protective wall slats, making them rattle slightly. After a moment's pause he forced himself upright again, his muscles all afire with soreness.

With a limp he made his way through the northern portion of Norwood, seeking his path determinedly and making a beeline for the tallest structure in the village: The Aviary.

The Aviary was a structure akin to a grain silo, tall and rounded on all sides. The four-story tower had open, shutterless windows with large sills to act as perches on every side of the top three levels. It was the resting place of the Wuulvites' many avian allies; a percentage of carrion and a few other birds species living in Wuulvite lands had elected to serve the powerful kingdom as messengers. Chattering amongst themselves and fueling up for a variety of different journeys, the dozen or so birds currently stopping in Norwood Village dipped their beaks into complementary bowls of water, grain, dried fruits, and a few of shredded bits of various jerkies. There were six different kinds of birds here, though elsewhere and at other times there could easily be more: Jackdaws, rooks, magpies, starlings, and a few kingfishers and hoopoe. Rising up the spiraling staircase to the second floor, Ento didn't even try to stop himself from collapsing onto his side and panting raggedly. A rook and one of the kingfishers that were previously conversing jumped at the noise and fluffed their wings in alarm, then once they realized that the rat was there hopped down from their perches and gazed curiously at the rodent, wondering how they could help him. The rat raised his head shakily.

"Rajik...Forrakri... I need two good birds t' travel east," he gasped, "Search th' well-used trails heading t' th' Fortress of the King. Find Captains Scruvo, Dunnage an' Forgo. They'll need t' know this: Shrews an' lemming 'ave attacked Norwood. See if they'll all return with all speed, if not, return with two an' allow th' final 'un t' go warn th' King." With this, the rat let his head fall against the floor, breathing hard and too worn out to do much more. The rook Forrakri and the kingfisher Rajik looked at each other, then back at the prone rat. Rajik peered over his shoulder at two more of his feathered companions, a pair of jackdaws.

"Yoos, gitta mista chief weasel 'r missa chiefess weaselady. Tell'm Entorat much winded, needsa help," the kingfisher hopped back up to the window sill plank, "Wees go, finda captain furbeasts. Raggahik!"

With a similar avian phrase the rook followed Rajik as he leapt from the window, gliding effortlessly over the rooftops of the Wuulvite creatures and the walls of the town. They winged in an easterly direction, flapping fiercely to ascend over the treetops, leaving the jackdaws to hastily flutter to the Council shelter in search of the two chieftains.

* * *

"Shhhut..!" Grueson hissed as quietly as possible to the shrew nearest him, coming just short of striking him in the face with the back of his paw. Himself and a grouping of twenty shrews and ten lemmings hunkered down behind the smallest of the logboats. They had backed up slowly, deep in a patch of rushes on the edge of the Norwooders' water millet and barley fields south of the village. The plan was confusing to the icevoles, who were much happier to use overt force in all their battle tactics, not his sneaking about.

"Hrr, why do we back into this mess?" one lemming grumbled aloud, seeming to be making sure that the grayed shrew heard him clearly, "We should be using the plan of Chief Skyslayer! Use the longship as a battering ram on that gate, then slaughter the verminbeasts who fight and put the rest to the sword!"

"Aye, what a _brilliant_ mind y've got, fatface," Flickblade sneered, rather enjoying the look of indignation that came over the foolish lemming as he insulted him, "Jist run right up an' kill 'em all, eh? Well, you go right ahead and do it then. See if those scum don't put arrows in yore skull th' moment ye knock that door down!"

Sulking, the icevole shut his mouth. Even the barbarian raiders were not dumb enough to support such a foolhardy plan once it's flaws were pointed out to them. A shrew named Reedblade nudged the usurper Log-a-Log to get his attention.

"We're well-in now, Log-a-Log Flickblade. We ought t' start settin' up attack soon."

"Good! Here's what we'll do: Git four shrews at a time an' duck 'n' weave out into those fields. Stay only where th' crops're high enough t' conceal ye, an' don't move too quicklike. Once all th' Noguos be'ind this logboat're moved out, we'll creep another few back an' continue. Once our fighters 'ave all gotten a ways away Froll's goin' t' start givin' those vermin heavy volleys of arrows t' take their eyes offa the background. When that 'appens we skirt into th' woodlands an' make our way t' th' east an' north walls o' th' vermin camp. We'll cross in two groups. Is that clear, bukoes?"

"Aye, sir. 'Tis a good plan with solid guerrilla tactics." Reedblade nodded in satisfaction. Grueson smiled toothily, clapping the other shrew on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Aye, oughta be! We're Guerrilla Shrews. 'S what we were _born_ t' do!"

* * *

West of the Northstream all seemed peaceful, with a faint wind blowing the new green leaves about lightly. The speckled sunshine and shade fell upon the undergrowth in a checkerboard of light and dark greens, browns, grays and buffs. Nobeast save the very astute could pick out the minute movements of the stealthy beasts making their way though the groves.

Jerro panted roughly but stormed ahead, keeping at the head of his land-based party. They were all tired, but they had covered a lot of ground. Only a single league stood between them and the place the Wuulvite vermin had named "Norwood", which lay on a large kinking of the winding river. The Log-a-Log did not want to stop, but he knew that he had to for the sake of his creatures' health. The older, younger, and less fit were looking ill from fatigue and desperately needed a break.

With a sigh, Jerro gave a signal whistle that sounded a bit like a kestrel shriek. Immediately all of the shrews ground to a halt, catching their breath as they stowed themselves skillfully in the mottled and mixed foliage, rummaging in small gear satchels for victuals and flasks, or shrugging off canteens of much-needed water. Bankpaw flopped down on the opposite side of the ash tree Jerro had leaned against, perspiring heavily but holding up better than the majority.

"I never gone quite this far in day, on land at least," Bankpaw marveled, wiping sweat from his brow, "We've gone ten leagues since noontide. I wonder where Acda is?"

"There, see," Jerro pointed stoically to the opposite bank at a nondescript creek inlet. "They slipped in under those low-hanging elders. I only just caught sight of 'em as they disappeared." The Log-a-Log sipped gingerly at a canteen, "We can't 'ang about here long. If we 'aven't run aground of Grueson yet then he must be at th' vermin place already."

"Pardon my bluntness, sir," the shrew warrior began quietly, as if a bit ashamed at what he was about to say, "But can't we just let the traitor be taken care of by th' Wuulvite vermin? It's all 'e deserves." Jerro looked up pensively.

"I agree with yore sentiments about Grueson, but..." he huffed, "We can't do that. Flickblade's a traitor, but he betrayed us, not th' vermin. We must be th' ones t' find an' punish him or risk th' shame of knowin' that we failed th' mates of ours he took with 'em."

"Of course," Bankpaw lowered his head, "I knew that, but we all got temptations."

"Aye," Jerro gazed out over the treetops, watching the distant V's of two birds on the wing disappear out to the east. "That is true."


	6. The Battle Deepens: Part I

Tales of Iffrit

Of the Struggle With Grueson Flickblade, Noguos Defector

(Part V)

In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's _Redwall_ Novels

* * *

"Whoooa! Look out!"

Loach threw himself to the side as a short barbed arrow hissed over the walls in a tall arch, missing the packed mass of beasts but scaring the young ferret witless as it buried itself in the ground a few pawslengths away from where he'd fallen. The commoners broke formation in a panicked scurry, dashing several dozen yards further from the south wall before they stopped and turned about, waiting for direction from Vautanna or Raegnor. The golden-eyed weaseless ducked behind a stack of wooden crates off to the side in avoiding another of the shafts.

The militiabeasts, however, made a uniform move for the wall's shadow, knowing that there was no arching pattern possible that was tight enough to cause arrows to land there, even if the icevoles firing them were standing just on the other side of the gates. Raegnor issued his orders swiftly and with military precision, pointing with his drawn blade.

"Kirtt, take yore squad t' th' walltops an' spy out exactly what th' foebeast's doin'." The large weasel whirled about, now facing Snowheron and her squad of fifteen, "You take yores an' begin movin' that rubble up th' south wall t' th' gate arch. Put it on broad, it'll catch as many enemy troops as possible if they try anythin' with that door. Thurna!" He barked, searching the crowd. Thurna, a husky female rat, trotted up from the back with her group of fifteen Light Infantry, "Make a circuit 'round th' interior an' check f'r grapnels or anythin' else suspicious."

"Sir, I thought Sherpp already went t' do that with three others," Thurna objected, mitigating her words heavily. Raegnor tapped the tip of his blade on Thurna's shield and gave her a sharp look.

"Those're my orders. Do it again." he commanded, leaving the rattess to bow her head slightly and swiftly move to obey. As the squad trotted off in a unified step, split into three columns, the large weasel cast his gaze over to where the non-warriors were grouped, standing hesitantly back from the wall ten or eleven yards from where the icvole arrows fell short. To his great surprise he did not see any casualties lying or limping about. The lemming weren't aiming true for some reason.

And where was Sherpp Fogrunner? It was not becoming of a squad leader to not be punctual in his duties. A worry creasing his already wrinkled and weathered face, Raegnor watched as Vautanna slipped out from behind the crates she had taken cover in and made her way to the commoners' area. The golden-eyed weaseless was telling them all something that could not be made out at that distance. There was his son Iffrit, near the front but shuttled to the side by several of the older beasts. The young one was glaring and scuffing at the ground. The Wuulvite Captain let out a low growl of stress as his hawk-like eyes bored into his son's moping figure.

"Son," he rasped suddenly, causing the dark-furred weasel to flinch slightly and look over, "pick four and get over here."

A stunned expression on his face, the young weasel looked back over his shoulder at his bunch of friends, who were just as dumbfounded as he. In an effort to not appear as confused or doubtful as they he waved a claw over at them.

"Er, Loach, Violet, Doulthe... an' you, Sleetpad." he chose carefully. Raosk stared at him, wanting to glare at not being picked at first, but then realizing that he was pretty sure he did not want to be involved in whatever ask the Chieftan of Norwood had for his fiery-tempered son. It was probably dangerous. Either that or it was menial, a punishment for acting out and breaking Wuulvite code by in-fighting without it being a formal duel. He waved a limp paw at them as they hurried off, following the Ranger Captain as he swept through the left flank of remaining soldiers like a storm, heading towards the west part of the village.

"Where are we going?" Loach gasped out as he nearly tripped on a garden rake somebeast had dropped, "What the devil did you pick me for?"

"I dunno, you're smart, I guess," Iffrit shrugged, his face reddening under his fur. "You figger it out!"

"Hunh," Loach panted. He had a small frame and thin lmbs, somewhat unused to heavy activity like jogging pell-mell across the entire village, "I know that's a brazen effort to both shut me up and insult me, but I'll ignore it."

"Will y' stop talkin' like that t' each other?!" Sleetpad whimpered, clutching her sling in her right paw until her joints hurt, "'Tain't fit fer a pair o' friends! You're friends, remember? Act like it, please?!"

"I'm tryin'!" Iffrit growled, his teeth clenched to avoid shouting, "I just said 'e was smart. It's a compliment! Hellsteeth!"

Up ahead a few yards Raegnor skidded to a halt, bending on his armored knee to examine the ground just below a ladder leading to the wall ramparts. The five youngbeasts halted too, several paces before smashing into him. Loach eyed the ladder base curiously and tentatively stepped forward.

"S-sir? Would you kindly tell us what our task is?" Raegnor looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes, "Ah, er, there is some task you wanted us to do, yes?"

"Come here, son." the Captain muttered gruffly, seeming to ignore the young ferret for now. He patted the ground lightly with his hefty paw as Iffrit approached. "Tell me what you see on th' ground there."

Iffrit stared at the patch of silty ground where his father's paw was resting. Squinting, he leaned closer and closer, until he was forced to kneel. He blinked in confusion.

"It's a weasel's track. An' some of a rat, too." he stated blankly, "Why do you ask this, father?"

"Ye want t' be a militiabeast, son, you show how much ye want it." Raegnor said levely. He gazed up at the other four, who stood dazed and uncomfortable by the sudden cryptic actions of the town's leader, "This goes for all of ye," He stared back at the track, "Sherpp fogrunner an' his reconnasaince squad 'aven't come back yet. This is his track, I know it. What I want ye t' do Iffrit is this. Find them."

"J-just us five, then?" Iffrit stuttered, kicking himself for letting his voice shake. Raegnor did not seem to notice.

"Don't go outside th' walls, keep t' th' village an' ramparts. Send a bird when you've found 'em, alive or not."

The Captain stood, and Iffrit with him. There was a certain coldness that had come about his father. Iffrit had never seen it before-_-_and it scared him to death. Was this what being a fighting beast was like, to stay still in the fray with nary a snarl or twitch of the lip? Was this what strength was? His eyes focusing on nothing in particular, the young weasel stood still as his father turned on his heel and began making his way back to the south maingate.

Ten paces away, he looked over his pauldron-clad shoulder, his eyes softer.

"Take care, son." he rumbled, "Talk t' me when this is over."

"I will," Iffrit murmured automatically. Then, the spell of self-doubt was broken. Iffrit stared down at the pawprint in the silt and studied it. Odd, it was pointed towards the wall, but there was no returning step down. Was Sherpp still up there? Mayhaps the foebeast had taken him by surprise, or captured him and his little troop. The dark-furred youngbeast took a deep breath and turned to Violet, Loach, Doulthe and Sleetpad.

"Let's not split up, too dangerous," he suggested. Violet nodded.

"Aye, whatever happened to Sherpp and his bunch might happen to us if we're not stealthy and careful." she added, twanging her bow.

"D'you lads think he's still atop the wall? It looks that way to me." Loach pondered. Sleetpad started up the ladder, peering cautiously over the top of the battlements as she reached them. She shuddered.

"Ughh, it looks so high, tho' I know it isn't."

"Focus, love. Don't get yore whiskers in a tizzy." Doulthe laughed softly. Sleetpad glared at him.

"I am not yore "love", now knock it off, before I knock _you_ off." she retorted. Iffrit resisted the urge to chuckle as he called up.

"See anythin'?"

"Not a solitary clue," the ratmaiden sighed, peering on, over, and around the battlements' walkway. "He didn't fall off here, I'm sure."

"Then let's check somewhere else. Anybeast 'ave trouble, give a crow call. We'll know it's you, an' mayhap some Crowclan are in th' area. They usually help a Wuulvite out."

* * *

Grueson's party was nearly ready. More than seventy Noguos shrews had congregated in a grove just south and east of the township's main wall. They crept northward along the wall in groups of two or three, just as they had silently used the high crops of their enemy to their advantage earlier. A shrew named Reedblade poked his head up, giving the walltops a swift glance. He ducked back down fearfully as the silouette of a rat in light chainmail tunic carrying a spatha sword hurried along up top. Once the rodent had his back to the shrew Reedblade stood slowly again, a hard round pebble fitted to his sling.

"Wait a tic," another more wizened shrew whispered. Reedblade obeyed, and a moment later the lithe figure of Sherpp Fogrunner could be seen amongst those of two more rats. They appeared to be conversing hotly with each other, but the echoing quality of the walls and woods obscured most of the words.

"Defenses...ready for...naught to do but."

"I told him t'...slings an' bows ready...in that case."

"What of...never came this far south... retaliate?"

"Nay, soldier, 'twouldn't be... We are Wuulvites, mate... Captains."

"Now," the older shrew directed Reedblade and a group of six others who had congregated around him. Seven slingstones flew upwards at the four Norwooders. Taken unawares, they were all struck with at least one of the projectiles, Sherpp and one of his rats with two and three, respectively.

The weasel staggered, stunned by the force of the stones crashing into his head and shoulder. Off balance, he toppled over the wall into the shrubbery, mere yards from his attackers. The rat that had caught the worst of the salvo slumped over, motionless against the ramparts and stuck against an archer slat in a way that prevented his fall. The other two rats shreiked and stumbled, disappearing behind the raised ramparts, presumably falling inward into the village's grounds. Reedblade rushed forward with rapier drawn. Sherpp, still consious somehow but bruised and battered into a stupor, struggled to get upright but failed, his single-headed axe held up awkwardly to fend off the blows.

"Wait!" the old shrew interrupted the hasty move again. He used his own rapier to turn aside Reedblade's in mid-thrust, "Think a minute, ye milksop. This'n's clearly some officer or somthin'. He'll be good fer a ransom."

"What?" Reedblade blinked, looking a bit insulted, "How d'you gather that? Ye think vermin like them'd even care what 'appens to their underlings? 'Sbetter if we just kill it, ye know vermin are naught but trouble an' trickery!"

"Thought before action, shrewbabe," the older one wisely retorted, placing a footpaw hard on Sherpp's fractured paw as he tried reaching for his targe. The squad leader howled in pain, forced to lie flat and grit his teeth for the pain, "We dunno 'ow these vermin'll act. That's why we try everything. Guirella shrews, remember?"

"Fine." Reedblade conceded, snatching the axe out of the much larger beast's weakened paw, "Will someshrew get us some line t' tie up this villain?"

Four other shrews hopped to it. Up on the wall, the still carcass of the unlucky rat sentry slipped slightly and was sent hurtling to the ground a few yards from the gathering. Sherpp gave a moan as the lashings tightened painfully.

* * *

I know, I know, very short this time. It's a miracle I could even do this much. Next chapter pending, probably due in a week and a half. Probably another shortie the way school is going... Happy trails!


End file.
